by Colin Forbes
Why? Because the French never stop worrying. They didn't know of any connection between Schulz and Mordaunt, but they suspected there was one. So did Marin. He had read the file very slowly three times, even though there was very little data. Tweed would have appreciated Marin.
Eventually Marin decided this man did not concern him or his country. French security was too tight. Germany was the next likely target. He scribbled a note in French on the last page. Not for us, could be for you. He then told an assistant to send a copy of the file by courier to Otto Kuhlmann, chief of the Federal Police in Germany.
Kuhlmann, a quick-witted man, read the file once, read the comment Marin had scrawled on the last page. Taking out a pen he scribbled through the comment, wrote one word next to it. Dummkopf. Which is the German word for 'idiot'.
On the same day, at Park Crescent, Tweed received a call from his old friend and sparring partner, Superintendent Roy Buchanan. At times they agreed, then disagreed, but Buchanan was probably the most efficient detective in Britain.
'Come over, now if you want,' Tweed suggested.
'That's me knocking on your door. I've something to show you.'
No more than fifteen minutes later he walked into the office, carrying a large cardboard-backed envelope. In his forties, Buchanan was a tall, lean-faced, lean-bodied man. His hair was dark brown and below his long nose was a neat moustache of the same colour. His eyes were shrewd, swept round the room at its occupants, all of whom he knew. Monica, Paula, behind her desk, Newman in an armchair and Marler, leaning against a wall.
'I've left Sergeant Warden downstairs,' he remarked.
Tweed invited him to sit down and Monica bustled out to fetch coffee. A stranger's impression of the lanky Buchanan would have been that he was relaxed, easygoing – which was a mistake many a villain had made.
'Is it about the riots, Roy?' Tweed enquired.
'Yes and no. I would appreciate your account of what you saw. One of my men recognized you near Reefers Wharf.'
'We didn't see any uniformed police until it was nearly all over,' Newman said caustically.
'That was because I took an unorthodox decision. I sent in teams in plain clothes so they didn't become a target. They ended up arresting twenty thugs.'
'That was clever,' Tweed commented. 'What did we see…'
He gave Buchanan an abbreviated report. Buchanan was writing in his notebook. He had just put his notebook away
– Tweed had made no mention of Lisa – when Monica arrived with the coffee. He drank half a cup, asked his question.
'Any clue as to who is behind them? Here? On the continent? In the States? Pity we hadn't an American contact.'
Mark Wendover had once more not arrived. Nor had he contacted Tweed, who was getting used to the American's independent habits. He shook his head as he answered the question.
'Not a clue. I'm investigating possible sources of finance.'
'Good idea. Very. Jumping to another topic, ever heard of a Mr Blue?'
'Yes,' said Marler. 'What do you know?'
'Only the name. One of my undercover men heard a reference to him in a sleazy nightclub. Made by a man who knows things no one else knows. I only asked because the name struck me.' He looked at Marler. 'Your turn.'
'Mr Blue,' Marler began, 'is the strangest case I've ever come across. Rumour hath it – no more than rumour- that he's a top-class assassin. The weird thing is he's not for hire, no matter how much the money offered on the grapevine. He selects his own targets. That really is weird.'
'So we know nothing,' Buchanan commented. 'Jumping now to a third topic, a murder case. Here in town. In a flat off Ebury Street. I was nearby so I went and interviewed the landlady who rents out the flat. The victim, a Helga Trent, was shot dead from a window across the street. So was her dog.'
'Sounds unusual,' said Tweed quickly.
'I've got here…' Buchanan took a thick sheet of paper, cartridge, from his envelope, gave it to Tweed. 'That's a picture one of our artists drew from the landlady's description of a sister Helga who was visiting her. The sister who rented the flat has since vanished.'
Tweed, his face expressionless, looked down at the drawing. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a woman with long red hair. It was a surprisingly good likeness of Lisa.
Tweed stood up. He walked towards Newman and Paula with his back to Buchanan. He was frowning a warning at them. Paula looked at the portrait, shook her head.
'Can't help you.'
Tweed presented the portrait to Newman, who took his time studying it. He handed it back to Tweed.
'A good-looker. Wish I did know her.'
'Well, it was a long shot,' Buchanan remarked as he returned the paper to its envelope. 'But you lot mix with a whole variety of people.'
'We do,' Tweed agreed. 'If you'd like to have a copy of the portrait reduced to a small size – something I could carry in my pocket – we just might spot her here in town.'
'Make you three copies. One for you, one for Paula and one for Newman.'
'Before you go,' Marler interjected as Buchanan started to stand up. 'Any news from Dorset?'
'I knew there was something else.' The superintendent sat down again. 'The Chief Constable down there had a chopper up all night. They changed crews and the chopper tried its luck in daylight. Not a thing. No sighting of a crowd of men like Tweed described – from what you saw. No buses, but they could have hidden them in old barns.'
'I don't suppose this Mr Blue could have killed Helga Trent?' Marler suggested.
'It is a very strange case,' Buchanan ruminated. 'The landlady said Helga was older than her sister but also had long red hair and looked a bit like her. The body was lying under a window with heavy net curtains. Two bullet holes in the window. One for Helga, the other for the dog. It crossed my mind that maybe the killer had shot the wrong target – that he was after Helga's sister and thought he saw her as Helga stood behind the curtains, with the light on behind her.'
'Anything to back up that theory?' Tweed asked.
'The fact that the younger sister has vanished – and made no attempt to call the police. Mind you, the landlady said they didn't get on. Helga tried to dominate her younger sister – the landlady heard arguments. I must go now…'
Monica held the door open for him, peered down the stairs. Sergeant Warden was sitting motionless on a chair facing George, the guard. As usual, Warden looked like a wooden Indian.
When Monica came back into the room Paula had shifted her desk chair in front of where Tweed was sitting. She sat down.
'That gave me a shock,' she said. 'That drawing is a perfect likeness of Lisa.'
'Almost,' he said. 'I congratulate both you and Bob for reacting the way you did.'
'You don't want Lisa bothered by police while she's ill,' Newman suggested.
'That comes first. Is most important. But I also think she is the key to this huge crisis building up. I think Buchanan is right in his theory. Lisa was the killer's target. We must keep her guarded night and day.'
'Harry has just gone over to the clinic to relieve Pete Nield,' Newman reported. 'I'm next on duty. No one will get at her.'
'I'll phone the clinic, see how she's progressing,' Tweed decided.
While he was speaking to Master neither Paula, Marler, nor Newman said a word. Paula sensed an atmosphere of tension in the room. After a while Tweed put the phone down.
'Master says she has severe concussion. He wants to keep her there until she's completely recovered. Warned me it could take weeks and he'll keep me informed.'
'I'd hoped for more,' Paula said quietly.
'I'm sure we all did. There's no skull fracture, thank God. Master also said he's sure she was exhausted and that has not helped.'
'She would be, after last night,' Newman commented.
'I have an idea,' Marler began. 'I'd like to go and check out that area round Ebury Street. The killer knew where Lisa was staying. That means he followed her. Might have located her p
ad days ago. That's what I'd have done in his place.'
'So what would you be looking for?' Newman enquired.
'His base – where he shacked up while he waited for the ideal opportunity. I might get a description of someone. It could take me days.'
'Do it,' Tweed decided. 'It's the only lead we've got to this mysterious business.'
Paula reached for his doodle pad. He had added another name, put a loop round it. Mr Blue.
'And I can't link him up with anyone.'
Tweed put a hand on the top of his head. He began to stand up, then rested both hands on his desk for support. Paula reached out, grasped both hands in hers. He sank back slowly into his chair, sagged.
'You're feeling rotten, aren't you?' Paula said, coming round to his side of the desk.
'Headache's been building up… pounding like a drum. It's so damned hot in here…'
Monica swiftly produced a thermometer, handed it to Paula. She inserted it gently into Tweed's mouth, looked at her watch, felt his temple. When she took out the thermometer she showed it to Newman.
'He's got a fever,' she whispered.
'He certainly has. That's diabolically high,' Newman whispered back.
'We're taking you to the clinic,' Paula said, leaning over Tweed. 'You're not…'
'Not the clinic…' Tweed was having trouble speaking. 'You know I… hate all medical things… hospitals, nurses fussing. Get me home… That's an order… Then get Dr Abbott
Tweed made a supreme effort. Resting his hands on his chair, he hoisted himself upright, swayed as Paula and Newman each grabbed an arm. He slowly walked towards the door as they held on to him.
'The stairs,' Monica warned, horrified.
'Bring the… pad on my desk,' he ordered Monica, then started coughing.
'Not a good idea…' she began.
'Bring the pad on my desk!' he roared.
Everyone was startled by the ferocity and strength in his voice. Monica hastily ran and picked up the pad.
'I'm going down the stairs immediately ahead of him,' said Marler. 'The hatchback is outside.'
'Water…' Tweed called out, his voice now croaking.
Monica poured a glass, handed it to Paula. Tweed tried to take it but Paula held on, guiding it to his lips. He drank the whole glass in two draughts, coughed again. They half-carried him down the stairs, step by step. Once he bumped into Marler who grabbed hold of both banisters, stiffened himself to take the weight. They reached the hall. George grasped the situation at once, ran to unlock and open the front door. Marler ran out to unlock the hatchback, open the rear door.
Tweed paused on the pavement, took in a deep breath. He looked at Paula, gave her a half-smile.
'Air's good…'
When they had Tweed flopped against a rear seat, Marler ran round to take the wheel as Paula climbed in the back. Newman waited.
'I'll keep the roster on you-know-who going,' he called out.
Upstairs, Monica had already phoned Dr Abbott, explained the situation, that Tweed was being taken home. In the Crescent the car moved off.
CHAPTER 12
They had another battle when they arrived at Tweed's flat on two floors, ground and first. Tweed told Paula where to find his keys, she fished them out of his pocket, unlocked the two Banhams, then the Chubb. Marler had held on to Tweed and Paula took the other arm and they entered the hall.
'On the couch in the sitting room,' said Paula.
'No. Upstairs in my bedroom… be comfortable there,' Tweed insisted.
'For God's sake,' Marler burst out. 'You don't want to climb more stairs.'
'I said my bedroom. I can make it myself.'
Tweed released himself from their grip, took hold of the banister with both hands, began to haul himself up. Paula and Marler leapt forward, grabbed his arms again, hoisted him up.
Inside the large bedroom Tweed sat on the edge of the bed, bent down to take off a shoe. Paula took over the job and took off bom shoes, his jacket, tie, loosened his shirt collar. Between them they had him undressed, in pyjamas and under the sheets, blanket and old-fashioned eiderdown when the door bell rang.
'That will be Dr Abbott,' said Paula. 'Go down and let him in, please, Marler…'
Tweed had flopped his head on the pillow, closed his eyes. Then he opened them and, despite Paula's protests, eased himself up on one elbow.
'My pad,' he demanded.
'You don't need that now,' Paula said firmly.
'It's in my pocket. Put it in the bedside drawer. Then get a fountain pen out of the other pocket…'
'You're not going to work…'
'Put the pad and pen in the drawer. That's an order.' As she did so he continued talking. 'No one is to know about this silliness. Anyone phoning, I'm away, can't say when I'll be back. Tell all the staff. That's another order…'
He flopped back on the pillow as Dr Abbott came in accompanied by another man carrying a machine. Abbott had a brisk manner, an amiable smile. He knew Tweed well as a friend. And he knows how to handle him, Paula thought as Abbott spoke.
'What's all this nonsense? Decided to take a holiday at long last, Tweed?'
Paula went downstairs to join Marler in the living room while the examination took place. She raised her eyes to heaven as she sat down.
'He'll make one hell of a patient.' She told Marler what Tweed had said. 'See what I mean.'
'That's what keeps Tweed going. Iron will-power…'
Abbott joined them about fifteen minutes later while his assistant went out to their car, carrying the machine. Paula also knew Abbott.
'He's got a virulent fever, a form of flu, but I suspect it's a rare strain. Has he mixed with anyone from abroad recently?'
'Yes. He toured the riot areas with us. Every conceivable nationality.'
'That's where he's picked it up, a quick-acting strain which I yet have to identify. I've given him an antibiotic and he's fallen asleep. I wanted him to be put into a clinic, but there's no budging him. Says he prefers his own bed, that he won't stand for a lot of chattering nurses fussing round him. Someone should be with him.'
'I can sleep here on that couch. You've met Monica -she can come here to relieve me.'
'Monica is a very capable woman. If there's an emergency – I don't expect one – whichever of you is on duty must call me at once. Now I'm going. I want to get the results of certain tests.'
'You'll keep me informed I hope?'
'Of course – or Monica if she's here. I have the phone number. He must not get out of bed. I slipped a bedpan under it.'
'Dr Abbott, how long do you think this will take until he has recovered completely?'
'The usual question.' He smiled. 'I never guess. But I will tell you it could be a long haul…'
Marler stood up when they were alone. He slipped on his topcoat.
'I'm obeying orders. I'm off to my flat to pack a few things, then I'll trawl Ebury Street, find that place where someone tried to bump off Lisa. I may stay in the area for several days. Something has just struck you.'
'It has. I wonder where the devil that Mark Wendover has got to?'
It was a quiet time in The Hangman's Noose. Herb was polishing the bar counter when Mark Wendover walked in, asked for a dry Martini. Herb looked dubious. 'I get a hint of American from the way you speak.' 'British mother, American father. Spent half my life here. Educated here and in the States. Get the picture. What's the problem?'
'Do my best, but Americans are perticular about Martinis. Saw you mixing it with those rioting swine,' Herb remarked as he took great care over the Martini. 'Saw you with a pal of mine, too. I'm Herb.'
'I'm Mark.' Wendover paused. I'm looking for a man called Delgado. Have a hunch his pad is somewhere round here.'
'You try your luck with some dangerous villains. Don't know where Delgado kips down – but I've seen him prowling round 'ere quite a bit. Especially down Reefers Wharf. That's across the street to the left. Any good? Don't mind if you won't pay for it.'
/> Wendover had just sipped his Martini. He licked his lips, took another sip, then raised the glass to the barman.
'This is the best Martini I've had since I was in New York. They couldn't do any better over there.'
'Thanks. Tries to oblige.'
Herb started polishing the bar again. Wendover had hoped his genuine compliment about the drink would get Herb talking but the British were careful what they said to visitors. He tried another tack.
'Just between us, the reason I'm after Delgado is I'm CIA.' He produced the folder he had deliberately omitted to hand in when he'd left Langley. The open folder he held up showed his photograph. He slipped it back into his pocket. 'I need to know as much about him as I can.'
'That's just beween you and me. The CIA business. And so is what I'm going to tell you. Delgado is an ugly customer. He was in 'ere one day, chatting to a pal at this very bar. I've got good 'earing. He said "I wish we can find out more on Rhinoceros".'
'That's an animal,' Wendover commented.
'I know. But 'e made it sound more like a person. Which I thought was strange. I s'pose that's why it stuck in my mind.'
***
Wendover left the pub, headed for Reefers Wharf. On his way he went into a phone box, one of the old red boxlike types, which he preferred to the new modernistic horrors. Newman answered the phone.
'Mark here, Bob. Ever heard of a guy called Rhinoceros?'
'Where did you hear that name?'
Newman's tone was sharp. At least, thought Mark, I now know it is someone's name. He asked to speak to Tweed. Always talk to the top man, or as high as you can go, had been Wendover's experience.
'He's not here. He's away on a trip. Don't know when he'll be back. Now, once again, where did you hear that name? And where the hell are you? With this outfit you work as a member of a team…'
Newman was talking into nothing. Mark had broken the connection. He'd try to get hold of Tweed later. At the moment he wanted to explore Reefers Wharf. He paused at the entrance to a very wide street leading towards the distant river.