Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  'Greatest living all-round scientist.' said Newman.

  'Which reminds me.' Tweed said to Monica. 'I'll need that list of twenty missing scientists you drew up which shows each one's speciality.'

  Monica handed him a file. He looked round the room as he tucked it under his arm.

  'When I return we may have a better idea of what exactly is going on. Grogarty is eccentric, but a genius . . .'

  In his Berne office Brazil had put down the phone after attempting to speak to Tweed and stared into space. His reaction was oddly like a mannerism of Tweed's. Jose kept quiet for a few minutes before speaking.

  'He was not available then, sir?'

  'I can't be sure, but I think Tweed was listening in to every word. I sensed his presence while his assistant fed me lies, said he was away.'

  'A very elusive man, our Mr Tweed.' Jose remarked.

  'It makes me even more anxious to meet him again -and for a really deep conversation this time. I suspect he knows that. I'm counting on the word "catastrophe" I used to fester in his mind.'

  'And in the meantime we wait?'

  'We do not!' boomed Brazil, standing up behind his desk and gazing down at his assistant. 'We proceed with our project which will not be ready for a few days at the earliest. I want you to phone Konrad and tell him all is proceeding according to plan. Konrad, a peculiar code name for a Russian, for Karov, the real man of power.'

  Tweed shook hands with Maggie Mayfield in the private room at Brown's. A plain woman in her forties, plump but with a strikingly intelligent face and shrewd brown eyes, she smiled.

  'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,' Tweed began.

  'I always arrive ten minutes early for appointments.' She grinned wickedly. 'I have been known to turn up at an embarrassing moment. Now, how can I help you?'

  They sat down and she poured coffee for both of them. Tweed had taken off his coat and they faced each other across a small oblong antique table.

  'After the tragedy at Sterndale Manor I was present when the police retrieved the large safe you told me about. The contents had been burned to ashes but my people are working on a technique to bring up what was written on them.'

  'Rubbish. It will be rubbish.'

  'Why are you so certain of that?'

  'Because when I phoned my uncle to tell him I could not come to his home I also asked him if the bearer bonds had been returned. After all, he told me they were on loan to a remarkable man to finance a project which would make Europe a safer place.'

  'He gave you the name of this so-called remarkable man?'

  'No. He refused point-blank. Said that was his affair. But he did tell me the bonds would be back in the safe by the end of the month. It's nearly the end of February now.'

  'How long ago was this phone conversation you had with the General?'

  'Two days ago. I'm recovering from my cold, but as you can probably tell it's still with me.'

  'So you doubt very much whether the bonds would have been in the safe when the fire took place?'

  'Absolutely certain. I know - knew - him well. And to reassure me I think he said the end of the month when he probably meant the end of March.'

  'You did once see that the bonds were kept in the safe?'

  'Yes, as I told you on the phone he once opened it in my presence. I can remember his exact words. "Would you like to see three hundred million pounds, the bulk of the bank's capital?" He then opened the safe, which was stuffed with folders. He opened one and showed me one of the bearer bonds. I was staggered at the amount one bond alone was worth. Issued by some huge oil company - I forget which one. That, of course, was before he loaned them to this unknown man.'

  'Can you remember the colour of the folders?'

  'Yes. They were the old concertina type - with separate sections. The colour was a faded green. I had the feeling they'd lain there inside that safe for years.'

  'And you still think this enormous sum wasn't the total capital of the bank?'

  'No, the General went out of his way to explain that all the different branches had their own funds and assets, more than enough to keep them going.'

  'And you believed him?' Tweed asked quietly.

  'Oh, yes.' She smiled wanly. 'My uncle was an honest man. He'd never have deprived the branches of their own funds. He'd feel he had a duty to the depositors who used the branches to guard their security.'

  'If you had been able to accept his invitation to stay at the manor that night am I right in thinking his only remaining relatives would have been there? And the only three people who knew he had loaned the bonds to someone?'

  'Yes, you are right. Richard, his son, also knew about the bonds and didn't like what he had done.' She drank more coffee and stared at Tweed as she put down the cup. 'You're thinking that if I'd been there no one would have been left who knew about those bonds, aren't you?'

  'Well, yes.' Tweed was admiring her as a gutsy lady. 'So who else knew you were coming?'

  'Only Marchat, who acted as butler, cook, cleaner -you name it. A nice, very quiet little man.'

  'Could he have talked to anyone about your visit -and the fact that what remained of the family would be in the manor that night?'

  'I don't see why not. Marchat used to visit a pub in the evenings, a pub in Wareham. He wouldn't see any reason to keep it a secret. I gathered that after a couple of drinks he'd become quite talkative.'

  'Miss Mayfield, I'd better warn you that a man from the Yard, Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan, is bound to interview you sooner or later. Tell him everything you've told me - except the last bit you've just told me about Marchat. And emphasize the bank will stay solvent, that the branches are all right. Once information like that -about the bonds - starts getting known it could cause a panic.'

  'I'll tell him. He's already phoned me at my home and said he'd like to see me soon.'

  'Thank you for giving me your time.' Tweed said, and he helped her on with her coat. 'You've been very helpful.'

  She turned round and stared at him. Her lips trembled, then her mouth became firm and she had a very determined look.

  'I've heard rumours, Mr Tweed. Read accounts in the newspapers. Was my uncle murdered?'

  'Yes. There's no doubt about that. Sorry to put it so bluntly, but I think you're the sort of woman who prefers frankness.'

  'I do. And I thank you for being frank.' She hesitated. 'Is there any chance that the person or people responsible will ever be brought to justice?'

  'I'm working on it personally. If I ever do prove who did it I'll see they pay the ultimate penalty. Don't ever repeat what I've just said.'

  'I won't. Again, thank you.' she said, holding out her hand.

  'One final question. Have you any idea of the nationality of Mr Marchat?'

  'Yes. He was Swiss. Very hard workers, the Swiss . . .'

  On his way in a cab to see Professor Grogarty Tweed's mind was in a whirl. He liked Maggie Mayfield. She was the sort of woman he suspected he could marry if she were willing. But of course his wife, who had long ago deserted him overnight to live with a Greek shipping magnate, was still his wife. He had never bothered with a divorce.

  It was a subject his staff never brought up. The only person he occasionally talked to about it was Paula. You're an idiot even to contemplate the idea, he told himself.

  He thought of Philip, enamoured with Eve. Maggie Mayfield would be a much better choice but he had no intention of interfering. Philip must make his own decision, for better or worse.

  Marchat. He couldn't get the name out of his head. He still thought that Marchat could be the key to solving the mystery. If they ever found Marchat. If he was still alive .

  'Hello, Tweed,' Professor Grogarty greeted him in his high-pitched croaky voice. 'Grab a chair, if you can find one unoccupied. Care for a Scotch? No? I permit myself one each day after eleven in the morning. Never a minute before . . .'

  Tweed took off his coat, looked round the room, which had once been a consultant's. Armchairs ever
ywhere, the covering worn and faded, and all piled up with books and files of papers. He removed a pile of newspapers, placed them carefully on the floor.

  'Bet you wonder how I find anything,' Grogarty croaked. 'Well, I can lay my hand on a specific sheet of statistics, go to it within seconds. Cheers! Sorry you won't join me with a Scotch . . .'

  Tweed was sitting in an armchair, studying his host. He never ceased to be fascinated by his extraordinary personality, his appearance.

  Grogarty was a bulky man, six feet tall with wide, stooped shoulders. He had a large head, a mop of unruly grey hair, thick brows, pouches under intensely blue eyes, and a prominent hooked nose on which perched a pair of pince-nez at a slanted angle - so one eye peered through the lens while the other gleamed over the top of the second lens. His mouth was broad and below it he had a couple of jowls.

  'You always come to me with a problem, Tweed, and I am thinking you have done so today. Why not surprise me sometime and drop in for a chat and a tot? All right, what is it?'

  With his free hand he shoved books off a chair onto the floor and sat down.

  'Now your filing system's gone to pot,' Tweed chaffed him.

  'No it hasn't.' Grogarty lowered his bulk into the chair, sat upright. 'There are twelve books down on the carpet and I can see from here which is which. I am ready, sir!'

  'You've heard, I'm sure, that twenty top-flight scientists have gone missing. Despite the weird fact that the news has been kept out of the newspapers - even in the States, which is quite something.'

  'I have indeed heard. Most sinister. I called Joe Katz, astrophysics, in South Carolina. A stranger told me he owned the house, that Mr Katz had gone to live abroad. Indeed, a top man. Katz had invented a system whereby a satellite in orbit two hundred miles up can be guided by the star constellations.'

  'He's on this list of everyone missing - with a note of his particular speciality.'

  Grogarty took the folder Tweed had handed him, opened it, adjusted his nose clip so both eyes peered through a lens and ran down the list in a matter of seconds. He gave Tweed back the folder. The speed with which he could grasp every single item on a close-packed sheet of typing never ceased to astonish Tweed. Grogarty took another sip.

  'You're looking for a pattern, something which would make these sixteen men and four women a team, I would suspect.'

  'You've got it first time. I've looked at that list for hours and sense something, but I'm damned if I know what it is.' Tweed confessed.

  'There is something, I agree.' Grogarty stared at the moulded ceiling as though the answer were there. 'Of course it's communications. Global. Worldwide. The system upon which we are becoming far too dangerously dependent. The Internet. The information superhighway, a stupid phrase invented by ignorant journalists. But this list is more than that.'

  'What is it then?' Tweed prodded.

  'Give me time, my friend.' Grogarty was still gazing at the ceiling. Somehow he managed to sip more Scotch with his head bent back. 'One man in that list is the key player in the game. Would that I could identify which name triggered something off at the back of my mind.'

  Tweed kept silent. He glanced round the large room which overlooked Harley Street. The furniture pushed against the walls consisted of genuine antiques. The framed pictures on the walls were priceless. One was a Gauguin. Grogarty was a wealthy man.

  No one would have thought so from the way he dressed. He wore an old grey cardigan with loose skeins of wool at the hem and two buttons missing, a third ready to join its lost fellows. His blue check shirt was open at the thick neck and the collar was crumpled. His fawn trousers had not seen a trouser press for years.

  'Odd that Irina Krivitsky, the world's greatest authority on lasers and their adaptation to controlling satellites, should be on that list,' Grogarty said suddenly. 'You will excuse me if I talk to you while I'm thinking.'

  Tweed stared quizzically at Grogarty. He knew that he sometimes adopted this weird mental technique when he was working on a tough problem. One part of his brain would converse while another part concentrated furiously on the problem he was wrestling with.

  'You can talk back to me.' his host reminded Tweed. 'I won't be distracted. Indeed, rather the reverse.'

  'What's odd about this Irina Krivitsky?' Tweed asked.

  'The last I heard of her - by devious means and routes - was that she was working in one of the secret Russian laboratories behind the Ural Mountains in Siberia . . .'

  Grogarty paused. He shook his head and his pince-nez went askew again over the bridge of his nose. He didn't seem to notice but he was nodding to himself. Something was coming.

  'Go on.' said Tweed.

  'Those hidden laboratories - buried underground, beneath the tundra - can't be spotted by Yank satellites from the air. They are as heavily guarded as they'd have been in Stalin's time. So why should they let her leave to work outside Russia?'

  'If she is outside Russia.' Tweed pointed out.

  'Oh, but she must be. Several of the names on your list would never agree to cross the frontier into Russia, let alone work there.'

  'They may have been kidnapped.' Tweed suggested.

  'Oh, but they weren't. Reynolds, an American, talked to me just before he disappeared. Over the phone. Said he'd received an offer he couldn't refuse so he was leaving his company in California and taking his wife with him. He said it was rather secret but Ed never could keep a secret.'

  'This is all science fiction to me . . .' Tweed began.

  'No! It isn't. Science is advancing by leaps and bounds. That's what worries me. The momentum is insane. Lord knows where we're going to end up.'

  'We'll find out in due courseRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'

  He never finished his sentence. Grogarty suddenly seemed to wake up, as though coming out of a trance.

  'Ed Reynolds!' he almost shouted. 'Ed Reynolds - he's the key player. His speciality is sabotage of the whole communications network.'

  'Sabotage?'

  Tweed's nerves were tingling already for another reason. But the word made him sit on the edge of his chair. His host looked excited.

  'I mean he worked on techniques which could sabotage world communications, throw the world into chaos. His objective was to find means of countering any such techniques. Like a doctor working on a vaccine to protect people against a certain disease. Do you understand me now?'

  'Yes. But does that link up with the other scientists?'

  'Yes, it does. If the real secret of the research going on somewhere is sabotage.'

  'That's it, then?'

  'That's it,' Grogarty agreed, standing up. 'Nice to see you, Tweed. Better get cracking - this thing is global. May be a complete change in the balance of world power.'

  16

  Philip was on the verge of leaving Eve's flat, reluctantly, when he closed the outer door and came back into the living room.

  'That was a quick trip to the office,' Eve said perkily.

  Her looked down at her, seated in an armchair, her shapely legs crossed. She was wearing dark blue trousers and a pale blue sweater, her arms rested on the chair's arms as he came towards her.

  She saw a man in his thirties, dark haired and cleanshaven with thoughtful eyes. Philip was again in a state of inner turmoil - enormously attracted towards this lively woman but still grief-stricken for his dead wife. He wasn't sure where he was.

  'Well, I've got your number . . .' he began, to tell her he would call her that evening.

  'And I've got your number, Mr Philip Cardon,' she replied, meaning something quite different as she jumped up and kissed him on the cheek.

  He was advancing closer when she held up both hands and waved him away. She stood, folded her arms.

  'Maybe we could go away on holiday to somewhere really exciting. Bermuda. When I have the time.'

  'That's a great idea,' Philip said.

  'I did say maybe.'

  'If you have to go abroad how long will you be away?' he asked.

 
; 'No idea.' She stood in front of a wall mirror, used both hands to smooth down her jet-black hair close to her head, then swung round to face him. 'Absolutely no idea at all. But I'll ring you. When I can.' she added. 'What is your office number? I may only be able to call during the day.'

  'That I can't give you. They frown on personal calls at the office.'

  'Stuffy old insurance bods. Then you'll just have to sit each evening in that empty house of yours in Hampshire and stare at the phone.'

  The remark hurt, the reference to the empty house, but Philip didn't show a trace of his reaction. He watched her pick up a burning cigarette from an ashtray, use it to light a fresh one. He found himself admiring her slim figure.

  'Giving me the once-over?' she enquired. 'You should know what I look like by now. Philip, I've got to take a shower.'

  'I was just going . . .'

  He closed the outer door behind him, walked slowly down the stairs, his emotions chaotic. Eve had a habit of lifting him up and then putting him down. He knew that some women used the tactic on men but Eve was an expert.

  Tweed walked into his office to find only Monica and Newman there. Newman was just lifting the phone.

  'Hello, Archie. Yes, it's Bob. How are you getting on?'