by Colin Forbes
'Would you like a seat, madam?' a man suggested, starting to get up.
'Thank you, but I'm not travelling far.'
The train stopped three times. Lisa wondered whether to get off. No, she was safer in a crowd. Gazing back down the crammed coach she saw Skinny was having more trouble than she had experienced. Passengers were protesting, holding him up. The train was in motion when she saw a uniformed ticket inspector asking Eyebrows for his ticket. He hadn't got one. Earlier he'd leapt over the station barrier with Skinny.
'Sorry, Inspector,' Eyebrows started politely. 'Here's the money for two tickets. My little friend is on his way to hospital.'
'There's a ten-pound fine…'
Eyebrows produced a twenty-pound note, shoved it into the inspector's hand. Skinny was on the move again, closing on her. Lisa realized the train was a lethal trap. He only had to wait until it reached the next station before he slid his knife into her and left the carriage.
She tensed her right leg. The train was pulling into Tottenham Court Road. She knew the area well. Skinny reached her as the doors opened. She lifted her leg, ground her hard shoe down his shin. He yelped. She was leaving the train as Eyebrows grabbed hold of Skinny, who couldn't move.
'Make way,' he called out, holding Skinny under the armpits. 'My friend has a bad leg.'
He was heaving Skinny out of the train when Lisa vanished up a flight of steps. She got on an escalator and just before stepping off at the top glanced back. Eyebrows and Skinny were staring up at her from the bottom.
It was a relief for her to get out into the cold fresh air. She half-ran up Tottenham Court Road, then down a side street, then into Bedford Square. Slowing down, she took in deep breaths of air. The square, enclosed with fine old houses, was empty as she made her way round the miniature park in the centre.
'I've had about as much as I can take,' Lisa said to herself.
She looked back to check again. Between the trees she saw the two men entering the square. Skinny was walking normally, seemed to have recovered from his injured leg. She had to find somewhere to hide. Where on earth could she go? She was confident that so far the thugs hadn't seen her since she'd left the Underground.
Then she noticed what she should have remembered. Each of the terraced mansions had a basement area with steps leading down to it beyond open railed gates. She looked back once more, saw they were still coming, dived down the metal treads into an open basement area.
Only then did she realize it was occupied. An old tramp, holding a bottle of whisky, was seated in a corner. He tipped his cap to her.
'Like a nip of the good stuff, lady?' he suggested, lifting the bottle towards her.
His accent was Cockney. His face was lined with age but his eyes were bright with intelligence. She had to trust someone. She spoke slowly, making her voice tremble -not a difficult task.
'Two men are coming after me, trying to hurt me.'
She had avoided using the word 'kill' – too dramatic and she was desperate for him to believe her. He used the neck of the bottle to point to an alcove under the pavement.
'Get you under there, lady. They stores the rubbish bags there, but it's the only 'idin' place.'
Lisa crouched down, went under the pavement, sat with her back to a wall. There was a smell of decay that she was hardly aware of. She felt sure the two thugs would come this way.
'I do have my Beretta,' she said to herself. 'Don't show it. The tramp will be scared out of his wits. Like me…'
The heavy clump of feet walking along the pavement above came closer. She froze when they stopped above her head. The tramp lifted the bottle, swallowed, pulled his cap lower as though going to sleep.
'You down there. Seen a girl with red 'air comin' along 'ere?'
The tramp opened his eyes, pushed up his cap. Then he did what she had feared he would do after the reference to red hair. He looked across at her. She knew a curl of her hair had slipped below the scarf. They'd come down the steps and she had no escape route.
Tweed, with Paula and Newman, had mounted the steps to the stately old house in Eaton Square, part of a terrace, when the front door opened. A man wearing a suit which would have been fashionable thirty years earlier emerged. Peering at Tweed, he descended the steps, swinging his silver-topped cane, and walked away. Tweed still held the door open while he read the names and numbers on a plate screwed to the side wall, then walked inside.
'I'll do the talking,' he told Newman.
'So I'll be the silent partner.'
The trees in the park outside beyond the road were black stark skeletons. A raw wind blew round the square. Once inside the hall Tweed found the right number, pressed the bell. They heard a lock turned, a chain removed. The door opened.
'Yes?'
'I'm Tweed. These are my assistants, Paula Grey and Robert Newman. Are you Mrs Mordaunt?'
'Yes.'
She was a brunette, attractive up to a point, her coiffeured hair trimmed short. Wearing a black dress with a white lace collar, she had a long sharp nose, a full mouth, pencilled eyebrows and cold dark eyes. Tweed cleared his throat.
'I'm very sorry to trouble you but I'm here regarding the investigation into the tragic business of your husband's death. My condolences, although words are meaningless.'
'You'd better come in.'
She ushered them into a large drawing room with tall windows, tasteful and comfortable furnishings – sofas and armchairs covered with chintz, matched by long curtains draped to the floor. Several Sheraton antiques, an unfinished piece of embroidery draped over the back of a sofa.
'Please sit down.'
'Thank you. We won't be long.'
'That's good. I have to go out soon. Would you like a glass of sherry?' she asked in her cultured voice when they were seated in armchairs.
'Only if you will join us.'
Tweed had expected her to ask for identification but she had omitted to make the request. In grief you are not the same person. He had noticed a large bottle of sherry, half empty, on a coffee table, an ashtray beside it full of used stubs. Almost as though she had been waiting for them. A water glass with a little sherry in it was also perched on the table. They all detested sherry but Tweed thought it might help to relax her.
'How unsightly,' she remarked and removed the water glass. 'I'll get the right glasses.'
She went over to a large cupboard, opened it and exposed shelves of leather-bound books. She swore, slammed the doors shut. 'Hardly know what I'm doing.' She walked to the only other large cupboard by the wall, a contrast in style to the cupboard she had first opened. Pulling back the doors, she revealed a collection of expensive glassware. Selecting four sherry glasses, she brought them to the table. Paula glanced at Tweed. He was watching her closely.
'I'm feeling better now,' she said as she poured from the bottle. 'Now, how can I help you?' she asked after sitting down, crossing her legs and sipping her sherry.
'Do you know whether your husband was under any kind of pressure recently?' Tweed enquired.
'Pressure isn't the word for it.' As she spoke she seemed to be looking at something beyond Tweed's left shoulder. 'I have been worried. Very. That beast Gavin Thunder is a slave-driver. Jeremy had very little sleep for weeks on end. And I never knew when he'd arrive home.'
'Mrs Mordaunt.' Paula had leant towards her. 'We understand you had a pet name for your husband. What was it?'
'I beg your pardon?'
Tweed, annoyed at the interruption, began cleaning his glasses with a clean handkerchief. During an interrogation a diversion could ruin the whole process. Paula persisted.
'A pet name – used between you and maybe at times when you had close friends with you. Not unusual with couples who are married.'
'I don't want to talk about that.'
'So,' Tweed intervened firmly, 'perhaps he was depressed?'
'Yes, he was,' she replied eagerly. 'Very depressed.'
'Did Gavin Thunder ever visit you here?'
&
nbsp; 'I've never met that man. Don't want to. I'm sure that his demanding personality didn't help the situation at all.'
'A delicate question,' Tweed said carefully. 'It would have been understandable in such a situation if Jeremy drank quite a lot…"
'Emptied whisky bottle after whisky bottle.' She had been answering questions more quickly after Paula's one query. She looked at her wristwatch, encrusted with diamonds. 'I hope you don't mind, but is there much more? I have a car calling for me and an urgent appointment to keep.'
Tweed stood up and Paula and Newman joined him. Paula stared round the room and then at their hostess who was reaching for a sable coat flung over the back of a couch. Tweed thanked her for her time as she led the way to the front door, fumbling in her handbag, producing a ring of keys. Attempting to insert a key she swore again.
'All these damned keys. I never remember which is which.' As she inserted another key she spoke over her shoulder. 'I will just say goodbye…' She had opened the door and a limo was parked outside. A uniformed chauffeur was striding up and down the pavement. 'Joseph knows I am late…'
Her shoes click-clacked down the steps. She had left Tweed to close the front door. The chauffeur opened the rear door of the car, closed it, hurried to get behind the wheel. Paula noted the limo's plate number.
Tweed held the front door open. A tall woman in a fur coat, beak-nosed, probably over seventy but with refined features, had begun to ascend the steps in a stately manner. Tweed opened-the door wider.
'We've just been to see Mrs Mordaunt,' he explained. 'The lady you passed as you arrived and got into the limo.'
'I beg your pardon, young man.' Her manner was imperious. 'That was not Mrs Jeremy Mordaunt. A complete stranger.'
'Excuse me, are you sure?'
'Am I sure?' Her manner was indignant. 'I have been living here for over ten years. Don't you think I should recognize my neighbours by now?'
Having said which, she sailed into the building like a galleon about to open fire on the enemy.
CHAPTER 3
'Tweed is dead.'
The man, known as Mr Blue to a very few top officers in certain security circles, relaxed while he spoke to the aggressive man at the other end of the line. He sat at the back of the Mayfair bar. It had a long counter running along the opposite side. He was the only customer and the notice displayed on his table bothered him not at all. Use of mobile phones is forbidden.
Arriving in the exclusive establishment, he had asked the barman for the most expensive brandy he could see. He had tipped the barman generously so he knew no complaint would be made.
Earlier, after placing his glass on the table, he had walked into the cloakroom at the rear. Alongside the entrance the words FIRE EXI'I were prominently attached to the wall. Walking to the fire door he lifted the steel bar, pushed the door open, peered out. He was looking into a deserted mews. A few yards to his right it led into a busy street.
Satisfied that he had an escape route – a precaution he never neglected – he returned to the table, drank some brandy and made his call. His voice was prudently low. The voice at the other end challenged his statement rudely.
'How can you be certain he is dead?'
Mr Blue paused, lit a menthol cigarette. He took his time answering. He had realized long ago that people swallowed everything he said if they had to extract information bit by bit.
'Two bullets hit the target, I was told. Tweed slumped down. The car apparently ran into a wall. No one left the car while it was visible to the two men who accomplished their task. If that isn't enough for you then there is nothing more to say.'
He rang off before the other man could react in his normal blustering manner.
Stop looking at me, for God's sake, Lisa said to herself, willing the tramp to transfer his gaze anywhere else.
It seemed to work. The tramp looked at his whisky bottle, capped it. He shifted his position so he was sitting more upright. He burped, then looked up at the railings along the pavement.
'Girl with red 'air?'
'That's what I said,' snarled Eyebrows. 'Stop repeating what I've just said and answer the question, you louse.'
'Girl with red 'air,' the tramp said again. 'I've three wimin down 'ere. Two brunettes and a blonde. Don't think you're going to share. Come down 'ere and I'll smash your face in with this.'
Demonstrating his threat, he took hold of the bottle by the neck. Grim-faced, he hoisted the bottle and waved it slowly backwards and forwards. He stood up, continuing to wave his weapon.
'I'll go down there and slice his gizzard, Barton,' a sinister voice said from above.
Tanko, you'll shut your cakehole. He's just an old drunk. We're wasting time. Get movin' now…'
With a sigh of relief, Lisa heard the clumping of feet walking away further along the pavement. And now she knew their names. Barton, Panko. The second name sounded Balkan. She had noticed his strange accent when he'd spoken. The tramp pointed a finger at her.
'Stay where you are. I'll make sure the rubbish 'as gone.'
He was absent for longer than she'd expected. She wondered whether he'd gone off to find another suitable hidey-hole to doss down. Then he reappeared, staggering a little as he came down the steps.
'Rubbish 'as gone. Went up Gower Street. Best go other way. Sorry about the stink in there.'
'I'm so very grateful to you. Heaven knows what you've saved me from.'
She had emerged from the alcove, was standing up. She reached for her purse, uncertain whether he'd resent payment. He seemed to read her mind. From under his shabby coat he produced a wallet fat with banknotes, showed it to her.
'I'm all right. Works the dustcarts. Odd way to earn me livin' but the money's good. Off you go…'
She threw him a kiss, climbed the steps, checked to her left, saw no one and hurried in the other direction. In Tottenham Court Road she flagged down a cab.
'Reefers Wharf in the East End. You know it?'
'Don't often go down there. Course I know it. I did the knowledge
…'
Less than an hour later she paid the fare, then started walking. She thought it wiser if the cabbie didn't know where she was going. It was market day. The wide street was littered with stalls, men crying out their wares. Wearing a camel-hair coat over her trouser suit she became a target.
'Oi! Lady, we're givin' it away. It's April Fool's Day and I'm the. fool…'
She hurried on until she saw the sign above the ancient pub. The Hangman's Noose. She pushed open the door and several sellers from the market were seated, drinking beer. Behind the bar a man saw her, gestured for her to move to a quiet end of the bar.
'Herb,' she said, keeping her voice down, 'I need a room. I haven't slept properly for twenty-four hours. Thugs have chased me. I gave them the slip.'
'Room Three. It's at the back.' He reached under the bar, surreptitiously handed her a key. 'Up the stairs and straight down the corridor. You get more beautiful each day, but you look all in. Have you eaten?'
'No, I haven't.'
'Thought not. Would 'am and eggs do?'
'I'm salivating. But there's a problem. I've left my case in at Waterloo. I have the receipt…'
'Give me it. Bert will drive there in my car. Be back here in no time.' She handed him the receipt, which disappeared inside his apron pocket. 'Give me a buzz on the phone when you're ready for the food.'
'Thanks, Herb. I could do with a shower first.'
'Room Three has all mod. cons. Bert will be back with your case in a couple of hours.' He leaned forward, whispering. 'No messages from Rhinoceros, whoever he may be, wherever he may be.'
'He's abroad. A very powerful man. I've never seen him and I've no idea where he is. Or who he is.'
Newman and Paula followed Tweed into his office. Newman waved a warning finger at Monica, gestured towards Tweed who had taken off his coat and settled behind his desk.
'Don't talk to him. All the way back from Eaton Square he hasn't said a word.
'
'I have to tell him something,' she protested. 'Professor Saafeld's report with copies are in that envelope on his desk. Plus his own report which I've typed.'
'Thank you, Monica,' Tweed said quietly and opened both envelopes. 'Now let me see what he says about the autopsy.'
'And, Paula,' Monica went on, 'that sealed yellow envelope on your desk is from Art Baldwin. It's the photos you took of Eagle's Nest on the Downs. Art insisted he had to be present when you opened it.'
'He's a boffin,' said Newman. 'Like all scientific types he has tunnel vision. Nothing exists outside his world.'
'Not yet,' Tweed ordered. 'I've almost finished both reports and you'd better know what they contain…'
Not for the first time Paula marvelled at Tweed's agile brain. Besides having total recall of conversations and a first-class memory, he was also a speed-reader. He pushed aside the reports, took off his glasses, cleaned them on a new handkerchief, perched them back on his nose.
'Saafeld's report is damning,' he began. 'An open-and-shut case of murder regarding Jeremy Mordaunt. Which links up with my own conclusions. Monica, take a copy of each report, put them in an envelope addressed "Personal, for attention Gavin Thunder", send them at once to the Ministry by courier.'
'The Minister will explode,' Paula commented. 'I gather he was so determined it should be suicide.'
'Can't be helped,' Tweed replied as Monica collected copies off his desk. 'Now, our visit to Eaton Square. Anyone suspect something was wrong when we were inside the drawing room?'
'I did,' Paula replied. 'She didn't know where the drinking glasses were kept. Went to the wrong cupboard. When we got there she'd been drinking vile sherry out of a water glass. Clearly, after she'd arrived she couldn't be bothered to look for the right glass so she grabbed one from the kitchen. On our way out she chose the wrong key to open the front door. Then the furnishings of the room didn't fit her personality.'
'Very good. What was that question you asked her about a pet name for Jeremy?'
'I thought I might throw her off balance – and I did. I'd given her the impression we knew the pet name. She couldn't answer me.'