The Main chance tac-23

by Colin Forbes

  Marler's anxiety, carefully concealed, was that they would get to the hotel car park after the French thugs. It would giver the enemy a huge advantage.

  Marler had no way of knowing this also was Paula's worry. Calouste had a reputation for brilliant organization. She reminded herself that they still didn't know whether the man who had phoned Tweed was really Professor Heathstone.

  She gave the order as they entered Gladworth, which was its normal sleepy self. She scanned the street for parked cars. Not a one. `Park the car a few yards this side of the entrance to the car park for the hotel.' `Why?' Tweed asked. `Do as you're told.'

  He parked where she had suggested. To his horror Paula, her Browning hauled out of her leg sheath, jumped out and walked briskly into the car park. She had chosen this weapon because it was easier to conceal, held close to her side.

  She walked in slowly, an unlit cigarette between her lips, just a local girl searching for her boyfriend. The car park was deserted. She went back to the entrance, beckoning to Tweed, who drove inside. She pointed to a space under the hotel wall, twirled a hand, indicating he should back in ready for a quick escape.

  The Mercedes, driven by Newman, had stopped at the entrance to Gladworth. He had observed Paula's movements and knew there was no danger. Yet.

  Tweed walked with Paula out of the car park, entered the large reception hall past a sorry-looking palm tree in a tub to the reception desk. The girl behind the counter greeted him with a welcoming smile. `If the car park is anything to go by you haven't many guests,' he remarked. `Only one. It's the time of the year. Come June and we'll be bursting at the seams. A number of those crazy mountaineers eager to scale Pike's Peak.' She clasped a hand to her mouth. 'Oh, have I said the wrong thing?' `You most certainly have not. The only mountain I want to scale is London's Canary Wharf. In a lift. We are here by appointment to see Professor Heathstone.' `He's in our best suite, Room 14, first floor.' She sighed. 'Poor man in that wheelchair.' `We've not met before. Wheelchair?' `It took the manager and the porter a terrible job to manoeuvre him up those stairs in the wheelchair. Shall I phone him and tell him you're coming?' `No, thank you. He does know we're visiting him but we'd like to surprise him. He loves that.'

  Room 14 was halfway along a wide corridor. There was a peep-hole in the door, which Tweed kept well away from as he pressed the bell.

  Nothing for a couple of minutes, then the door was opened on a chain. An ancient face peered out, nodded, took off the chain, opened the door. Professor Heathstone smiled, manipulated levers as he backed away at speed until he was behind a large desk. He gestured for Tweed and Paula to sit in two comfortable hard-backed chairs facing him. Tweed made the introductions. `You are most prompt, sir' Heathstone responded. 'I approve of that. And you have made my day by bringing your delightful assistant, Miss Grey.' He managed a small bow towards her. 'They have a well-stocked bar downstairs. What may I offer in the way of refreshment?'

  His visitors both thanked him and refused the offer. Paula was nervous and therefore very alert. She bent down to adjust her jeans over her right ankle, checking to make sure her Browning was easily accessible.

  Professor Heathstone was not what either of them had expected. First, there was the wheelchair. Then his face was so crinkled, like a crocodile's. His brown eyes peered at them from behind his gold-rimmed pince- nez. Tweed noticed his voice was stronger, his accent that of a British public schoolboy of long ago. Maybe he had trouble talking on the phone. `Now, sir,' Heathstone continued, 'I am a businessman and your swift agreement to come and see me suggests that the document is valuable to you. I trust you will not mind paying me a fee. In cash, of course. Say two hundred pounds.' `That's a lot of money,' Tweed remarked. `I assure you, sir, I paid a great deal more for the first edition of Ulysses inside which I found this document. Of course I could sell it for three times that amount.' He snickered. 'The bookshop owner in Paris had no idea of its true value.' `I'll pay your fee when I have examined the document.' He paused. 'What is this organization the Red Circle?' `I really have no idea. Nor, sir, do I care.'

  Tweed nodded. In a recent phone conversation with Buchanan he had been told that the French police had recently found out it was the code name for Calouste's Continent-wide organization. `I appreciate your time is valuable,' Heathstone said as he placed both hands on the wheelchair's levers. The window behind him overlooked the car park, too far back for either Tweed or Paula to be able to see down into it. They heard the sound of a car entering. Almost at once a second car drove in.

  Heathstone expertly swung the chair round, moved it so he could look down through the window. He snickered, swung the chair round and snickered again, then spoke. `Wedding party. This will be the best day of their lives. Now, to business. The fee is agreeable, sir?' `After I have seen the document.'

  With great skill Heathstone manipulated the chair at speed across the room to a door which obviously interconnected with the next room. As he slid back the bolt he called over his shoulder. `You do have the cash with you?' `Of course I have.

  The door closed. Paula frowned, lifted her eyebrows as she looked at Tweed. `Probably has his precious first-edition Ulysses hidden in that room.'

  Earlier, waiting at the entrance to Gladworth, Harry had made a suggestion to his companion. He wanted Newman to change places, to take over the wheel, while he occupied the passenger seat. Not knowing what he had in mind Newman, always trusting Harry, agreed. `There's a big Citroen packed with men coming up behind us,' Harry warned. 'Drive into the middle of the car park, well away from the wall. Quickly…'

  Newman drove the Merc into the deserted car park – only Tweed's Audi occupied a slot. The Citroen drove in at speed, pulled up a few yards to the right of the Merc. The next event happened so quickly it would have been difficult to time. `Stop!' ordered Harry. As Newman braked Harry was out of the car like a sprinter, his Walther in his hand. He sped across the car park, reaching the Citroen as one of the four evil-looking French thugs, knife in hand, pushed open the front passenger door prior to leaping out. Harry slammed the door shut as the thug had one leg outside. The door hit his leg like an axe blow. The thug screamed with pain, leg still trapped between door and body of the car.

  By now Marler had reached the driver's door, a Walther in his hand. The window was down and the driver was about to lunge out, a vicious-looking knife in his right hand. Marler had an unpleasant smile as he aimed the Walther. The driver raised both hands to the roof, dropping his knife.

  The two thugs in the back were about to disembark to join in the melee when they heard a loud tapping on the rear window. Looking back they saw Newman, his Smith amp; Wesson aimed at them point blank, swivelling the barrel swiftly from one to the other. They sat frozen still.

  It was a few seconds earlier when Professor Heathstone had glanced out of the window and made his remark about 'wedding parties'.

  Harry now dragged the thug with the injured leg out of the car, pushed him face down on the hard gravel, produced his first pair of handcuffs and clamped them tight round the thug's wrists. He ran round to the driver's seat where Marler had opened the door and pressed the muzzle of the Walther hard against one eye. No point in playing around with lethal scumbags.

  Marler was fluent in French and in dirty language the thug would understand ordered him out, to lie stomach-down on the drive. The thug hesitated, still clutching his knife. Harry brought the barrel of his automatic down hard across the thug's fingers, which he broke. The thug screamed, the knife fell, Harry hauled him out, shoved him onto the drive, used a second pair of handcuffs to pinion his wrists behind his back, ignoring the man's moans about his fingers.

  Hurrying to the rear, he wasted no time at all while one thug, under the threat of Newman's revolver, meekly stepped out and lay on his stomach on the drive. He had been shaken by the sight of Harry's first captive lying with one leg at an abnormal angle. The remaining thug was made of sterner stuff.

  Despite Newman's Smith amp; Wesson he leapt
out of the car, his wide-bladed knife aimed at Harry's stomach. Newman brought the barrel of his gun down on the bridge of his nose, often a lethal blow. He collapsed, half inside and half outside the rear of the car. `Thanks,' Harry said. 'That was close. He's probably dead. Who cares?'

  He checked the thug's carotid arteries. His reaction expressed surprise and something like a hint of regret. `Bastard's alive. Ticking over nicely.'

  He hauled him fully out, turned him over, brought both hands together, clamped another pair of handcuffs on them, stood up. `Not a bad morning's work, Marler commented. `Now I suggest we put all the bodies in the back of the Merc and deliver them to Commander Buchanan. They'll all be illegals so he can send them back to France with our compliments.

  In Room 14 on the first floor Paula was getting impatient. She checked her watch, looked at Tweed. `He's been gone five minutes. I'm suspicious.' `So am I,' said Tweed. We'll go and have a look.'

  Paula had her Browning by her side as Tweed threw open the interconnecting door. Professor Heathstone had disappeared. He walked into another bedroom. Nobody. On a table an old copy of Ulysses. He opened it to the publisher's data in the preliminary pages. He laughed. `It's a third edition, not a first. Worthless. And not a document inside. What a surprise!'

  Paula ran across to a side door marked FIRE EXIT.

  Opening it, she saw stone steps leading down. She ran to the bottom with Tweed behind her calling our for her to be careful. Opening the door on the ground floor by lifting a bar she found herself in an alley. Opposite a door led to a garage. She heard a car starting up but by the time she was inside it had disappeared, turning in the direction of Hengistbury.

  Tweed led her down the alley into the main street and round into the car park. The Merc, driven by Newman with Marler by his side and Harry between them, was about to leave. In the back, handcuffed bodies were piled on top of each other.

  Marler lowered the window. He beckoned to Tweed and Paula. `This is what it was all about. The gentlemen in the back were supposed to kill both of you. We're taking this lot, all illegals, I'm sure, to dump them in Buchanan's lap.' `That would be a long drive,' Tweed told him. 'I'll phone Buchanan and tell him to send police cars down to meet you, take your packages off you, then you can drive straight back to Hengistbury.' `How did you get on with Professor Heathstone?'

  Marler asked as Newman started the car. `It was rather a short conversation, then he slipped away via a connecting door into the next room.' `So Calouste has escaped once more,' Marler said, lowering his voice. `He's a persistent rat. He'll be back. I'll be waiting for him.'

  27

  `There's a sealed envelope waiting for you from Buchanan,' Lavinia greeted them as she opened the door into the hall. 'He phoned and said that it was coming by courier. He spoke to me when I told him you were out with Paula. `You told him the rest of my team were also out?' Tweed asked as they entered the hall and she closed the door. `I did not.' She smiled. 'He's a man who uses few words. So am I. I don't pass on information to anyone unless I have to.' `Well, I'm grateful,' Tweed replied as she handed him the envelope. 'Is there anywhere here where we won't be disturbed?' `I'd use the smaller upstairs library next to Bella's study. No one likes to go there these days.'

  Tweed thanked her again. She was wearing a longer blue skirt, the hem ending just below her knees. Round her waist she had an apron. She touched it. `Please excuse this. I'm in the kitchen baking more lemon pies. Now, give me your coats then you can hide in the library.

  Tweed entered the upstairs library. Sitting down at a table, with Paula by his side, he checked the envelope's seals, which were unbroken. He opened it slowly.

  The mobile buzzed. It was Buchanan. `Tweed? Good. Just to tell you the envelope – it has arrived? Good – contains five portraits of a man Loriot of the French DST believes is Calouste. If so, it's a coup. Sketched by a student in a back-street Paris bar. The subject had a Frenchman with him who might just be his deputy. The sad confirmation is the student was found headless, floating in the Seine. That was after I'd seen him at HQ and he'd told me he heard the deputy address him as Calouste. When I just said "I' and "me" I was quoting Loriot.' `Why would that trigger off the student?' `Because Calouste is becoming less invisible. There was an article splashed in Le Monde at my suggestion. A blazing headline worded "Calouste Doubenkian: Wanted for Questioning". The reporter who wrote the article is now under police guard in a safe house. Any progress down there about what the reporter Drew Franklin is calling "The Necklace Murders"? Didn't think you'd tell me anything yet. I must rush off now.'

  Tweed told Paula the gist of what Buchanan had told him. She nodded impatiently. `Is it going to take all day to see what's in the envelope?' `Curiosity killed the cat, to coin a cliche,' he teased. Well, women are curious like cats if they've anything up here -' she tapped her forehead – 'except skullbone.'

  He withdrew from the envelope five photocopies of the same picture. It was a sketch executed in charcoal and could have been drawn by her. She sucked in her breath. She could tell the poor French student, murdered, might well have developed into a talented artist. But it was the sketches which startled her. `They're nothing like Professor Heathstone.' `No, they're not.'

  Heathstone had struck her as being in his late seventies or early eighties. The sketch was of someone in his late forties at a guess, an evil-looking man with a spade- shaped jaw, a smooth skin, a crooked nose and wearing dark glasses, which concealed his eyes. Something about the sketch made her suppress a shudder. `Perhaps Heathstone was a deputy,' she said doubtfully. `I thought maybe you were going to suggest Heathstone was heavily disguised. The contrast is too great for that.'

  Well, when he fled I heard Heathstone's car heading this way towards London.' `Or maybe Shooter's Lodge.'

  There was a tapping on the door. Tweed slipped the sketches back inside the envelope, then called out, `Please come in.'

  Lavinia appeared, without her apron, carrying a silver tray with Rosenthal crockery, a large pot, a jug of milk, plates, on one of which was a selection of cakes. She arranged them on the table. `I thought you might like some coffee to keep you going.' `Yes, we would. How considerate,' said Tweed. 'And now you're here do you mind if I ask you a few questions?' `Of course not.' She carried a chair over to join them, sat down. 'I can't promise to answer all of them if they concern how the bank operates,' she concluded with a smile. `I don't want secrets,' he said, turning his chair so her knees almost touched his. 'But Bella gave me no idea at all. You must keep records.' `We do. In a way you'll think we're old fashioned. We have no computers in the place, no Internet connection. Bella said if hackers were able to penetrate the Pentagon, which quite young boys did, then they could certainly penetrate ours, if we had them.'

  Paula was smiling inwardly. Tweed had banned the modern machines from his office for the same reason. After all, overseas agents' lives were constantly at risk. `If you'll let me go on,' Lavinia said with another smile, `our records of depositors' amounts are typed on index cards. We employ two bright girls from Gladworth to do the work. They come in several days a week by the back door and work in the east wing. So far I've kept Chief Inspector Hammer out from that part of the building.' `No point in invading that area,' Tweed agreed. 'I'll have a word with Hammer. Going back to your system, surely you are putting a lot of trust in these two girls from Gladworth, even risk, considering the data they must know?' `We don't rely on trust.' Lavinia smiled again. 'They work from material I hand them. Each depositor's name is coded, and the amount deposited is coded. I carry the book with those codes everywhere with me.' Her blue eyes seemed even larger as she stared at Tweed with a mischievous expression. 'I even keep that book inside my pillow when I go to bed. So only someone with me might extract it from the pillow when I've fallen asleep.'

  The last place Tweed looked at now was where Paula had settled by his side. He tried to think of something to say but nothing would come. `And now,' Lavinia said, standing up, 'if that is all, then I think I ough
t to leave both of you in peace. No one else will come up. I wish you positive thoughts.'

  After she had closed the door she opened it again quickly. `If either of you need some bedtime reading matter I'd go to the bigger library downstairs. It is crammed with novels, the latest and classics. This library was Bella's collection of a range of obscure and strange volumes.' `Thank you,' Tweed said. 'Oh, we have not seen a single newspaper since we arrived.' `Bella didn't like them. Snape takes a whole variety and keeps them in his cabin in The Forest. 'Bye for now.' `This coffee is just the right temperature and so welcome,' Paula said after pouring two cups when Lavinia had gone.

  Tweed drank half a cup and then wandered over to the glass bookcases lining part of one wall. He could glance quickly along a shelf and absorb all the titles. He stopped, put on latex gloves, unlocked a door, reached for a large leather-bound volume pushed further in between other volumes. Taking the volume to the table he laid it down, gently lifted the front cover and the book opened to a page in the middle.

  Paula stood up, joined Tweed at the table. He had closed the book, showed her the title on the well- rubbed spine. Spanish Inquisition: Methods of Torture, he translated. Then he let the book open by itself at two pages in the middle. He was wearing latex gloves. `Oh, my God!' Paula exclaimed.

  The right-hand page carried a series of illustrations, each showing from different angles drawings of a spiked collar which was almost a replica of the spiked wire collar which they had seen round the neck of Bella and, later, round the neck of Mrs Carlyle. One drawing showed the back of the collar with wooden handles to draw the collar tight. There was some text in Spanish. `So now we know where the killer got his idea for the fiendish weapon.' `Which narrows his identity down to someone inside the manor.' `Wish I could read Spanish,' Paula mused. `The pictures are sufficiently self-explanatory.'