Rhinoceros tac-18

by Colin Forbes

  'Sixth sense,' she snapped.

  'You can, I suspect, do better than that.'

  'Lisa,' she said, 'he says do better than that. OK, I will.' She half-smiled at him. 'I trawled the Reeperbahn – don't look like that. Wait till I'm finished. I used taxis to move from one bar to another

  …"

  'In that outfit?' he asked in a worried tone.

  'Just watch me.'

  From her small evening bag she took out several hairpins. She lifted her red mane, coiled it on top of her head and held it diere with die pins. She picked up the scarf she'd carried in, now spread over a couch arm, wrapped it round her head, tied it under her chin. The next item from the evening bag was a pair of large spectacles with thin horn-rims. She perched them on the bridge of her nose. Finally she took out a very small metal case, extracted a slim cigar, placed it in her mouth. She was unrecognizable and none too attractive.

  'Well?' she said.

  'I'm amazed. I suppose you learned tricks like that when working for the security agency in New York.'

  'Right on the button, Mister.'

  Her accent was convincingly American. Tweed waved both his hands in admiration.

  'I got lucky,' she said, after removing the cigar, 'in the sixth bar. I'd left my drinks hardly touched in the other bars. In the last bar I found myself sitting next to Blue Shin, Pink Shirt, whatever

  'He's been identified as Oskar Vernon, now staying at the five-star Atlantic facing the Aussenalster.*

  'Now he tells me.' She smiled. 'Oskar, then, was whispering to my old friend, Barton, last seen in Bedford Square while I was with my friend, the tramp. I have very acute hearing. Oskar said, "We're going to have a bloodbath with that bastard Tweed and his whole team. Wipe them off the face of die earth. Soon now. We just have to trick them, get them well outside Hamburg. I've worked out how we do it." Having heard that, I thought I'd better make myself scarce. Oh, Oskar was wearing a violet shirt. Hideous.'

  'So now we know.'

  She reached for her half-empty glass of Scotch, put it down untouched. She pulled the scarf off her head, dropped it on the floor, removed the spectacles which had made her look like a schoolmistress. She looked as though she had squeezed the last drop of energy out of herself. She swayed. Tweed grabbed her by the shoulder. She closed her eyes, opened them again with an effort.

  'I'm flaked out,' she said hoarsely. 'Can't move my legs. Sleep. I need sleep. For a week…'

  She swayed again. She was half asleep already. He moved to the end of the couch. He just had time to grab a cushion, lay it on his lap, before her head fell on it. Leaning forward, he got hold of her legs under the knees, spread them along the couch. She half opened her greenish eyes, looked up at him.

  'Thanks,' she mumbled. 'I know poor Mark is dead. Saw his body on the pavement when I got back…'

  Then she fell into a deep sleep. Tweed understood now her erratic moods. The sight of Mark, half his head shot away, had shaken her up badly, accounted for her swift changes of emotion. He leaned back against the high end of the couch and fell fast asleep.

  He woke in the morning to find her still fast asleep, her head in his lap. Daylight filtered through the closed curtains. His back felt stiff as a board but he had slept non-stop. He couldn't move without disturbing her so he stayed still until, after a few minutes, she opened her eyes, stared at him, smiled. Lifting her head, she sat up, planted her legs on the floor.

  'A shower,' she said, suppressing a yawn. 'My kingdom for a shower.'

  Tweed pointed to the bathroom, told her to take her time, that he'd have a shower when she had gone.

  I'll order breakfast for us from room service,' he called out.

  'But won't they think…'

  'Who the hell cares what they think? What do you fancy for breakfast?'

  When she had gone into the bathroom, he ordered orange juice, coffee, toast, scrambled eggs and tomato, croissants, marmalade for two people. Then he tidied himself up, checked in a wall mirror, decided he wouldn't have time for a shave but he didn't look too bad.

  'Bathroom's yours,' she said, emerging more quickly than he'd expected.

  She was wearing a white flannel robe she'd found in the bathroom and looked herself again. She smiled at him.

  'Excuse the robe. I do have the dress on underneath.'

  'I'd better hurry. Breakfast will come soon…'

  During the first part of breakfast they didn't say much to each other. Lisa had said she was ravenous. Then Tweed, keeping off serious subjects, described to her the Aussen – or Outer – Alster. How the ferries zigzagged across it, moving from one landing stage to another, picking up and dropping off passengers. How, at the extreme distant end, it narrowed into little more than a wide stream with willows drooping into the water with small parks behind them.

  'Sounds heavenly,' she said, watching him.

  'We ought to take a trip sometime,' he suggested.

  'I'd love to. Sounds so peaceful -you described it in such a graphic way. I think I'll get back to my room now.'

  She returned the robe to the bathroom, straightened her creased dress, went to the door, looked back.

  'Am I still on the team?'

  'You were never off it.'

  CHAPTER 24

  Paula tapped on Lisa's door. She heard it being unlocked and approved of the caution. Lisa opened the door, looked pleased, invited her in.

  'My face is a mess,' she explained. 'Do sit down while I try to make it look half decent.'

  'You look OK,' Paula replied as she sat down next to the table with the phone.

  'Don't feel it.'

  'You have heard,' Paula began tentatively.

  'About Mark being shot last night? Horrible, isn't it? I saw him on the pavement. I must have got back just after he had been killed. I felt sick.'

  The phone rang. Lisa asked Paula to see who it was so she could finish her renovation. Paula picked it up, was about to ask who it was when a creepy voice spoke.

  'Oskar here. I have news…"

  Paula put down the phone as though it were red hot. She was careful not to look at Lisa, who turned round on her dressing table seat.

  'Was it Tweed again?'

  'Wrong number.'

  'Tweed rang me a few minutes ago to tell me you and Newman were going with him to a business meeting. Said he hoped you'd be back in a couple of hours. You know I'm still feeling ill about poor Mark. You don't look too good yourself.'

  'I'm all right. I'd better go soon. I just called to see if you had heard – and if so how you were.'

  Paula was in a state of shock. Why had Oskar Vernon -she felt sure it had to be him – phoned Lisa of all people? She let herself out, saying nothing in case her voice might betray her.

  In the corridor the same small chunky uniformed hotel cleaner was still operating his vacuum cleaner. She noticed that the trousers he was wearing flopped over his shoes. His jacket wasn't a wonderful fit. She walked towards Tweed's suite.

  'Good morning,' she said as she passed the cleaner.

  He grunted, didn't look up. Which was unusual. She'd found all the staff so polite. Maybe he was new. She knocked on the suite door and Tweed, wearing a new business suit, a coat over his arm, ushered her inside.

  'You won't need a coat this weather,' she told him. 'It's a boiling day outside already.'

  'You're right. Can't think why I took it out of the wardrobe. Had my mind on something else.'

  The death of Mark, she thought. Or, more likely, working out his strategy for the meeting with Rondel and his partner. She sat down, couldn't think of anything to say. Shouldn't she tell him about the weird phone call in Lisa's room?

  'Lisa,' he said, 'has had a bad time of it. She actually saw Mark's body on the pavement when she got back to here. From Bob's description, when he visited the morgue, it must have shaken Lisa up badly.'

  'I can understand that.'

  She was still trying to decide whether to tell Tweed when Newman arrived. He smiled at h
er, squeezed her shoulder.

  'I can do without any more grim shocks today. What are the tactics for this morning?'

  'Leave me to do the talking,' Tweed replied. 'You two keep your eyes open. You might just see something interesting.' He looked at his watch. 'Time to go. Nield has told the porter to have the Merc ready for us – the cream one, of course.'

  When they entered the corridor Paula noticed the man using the vacuum cleaner had disappeared, but half the carpet still needed attention. Tweed had gone ahead, turned to call to Paula.

  'I'm having a brief word with Lisa, then Keith…'

  He tapped on Lisa's door and stood half inside when she opened it. Paula heard every word that was said.

  'Lisa, I'm off to a meeting with Paula and Bob. Expect to be back in about two and a half hours. I hope you can then join us for lunch. You can? Good.'

  He hurried on to Keith Kent's door, beckoned Paula and Newman to come with him. A heavy-eyed Kent let them in. Paula thought he looked as though he'd had no sleep. His desktop was scattered with Kefler's papers and he had a small ledger open. The page was a jumble of figures. He took the blue book out of a drawer and it had a marker inside it.

  'Didn't know who it was,' he explained. 'So I hid the book.'

  'How is it going?' Tweed asked.

  'I'm breaking it, but haven't got there yet. The blue book Mark provided is invaluable.'

  It occurred to Paula that Kent didn't know Mark was dead. He was in his shirt sleeves and on another table was a tray of coffee, remnants of croissants. Tweed looked at it.

  'When did you last eat a proper meal?'

  'Can't remember. Been at it all night. It's absorbing.'

  'Go down now and get a decent meal at the Condi,' Tweed told him.

  'I can't leave these papers, even locked up…'

  'Lisa could come and keep guard while you eat,' suggested Tweed.

  'Lisa,' Paula said hastily, 'is fagged out. She told me,' she lied, 'she didn't get any sleep – probably after her long day yesterday.'

  Tweed glanced at her, bewildered. There was nothing that he could say, that it would be wise to say. He looked back, saw Newman standing inside the closed door, turned to Keith.

  'Any hint as to what you've found so far?'

  'Oh, there's a ton of money missing. But whether it's still somewhere inside the bank or has been moved elsewhere I just can't fathom yet. Nor who is responsible for the movement. I'll crack it, but it may take a few more days.'

  'Promise you'll phone room service, order a proper meal as soon as we've gone.'

  'I'll do that. I've just realized I'm hungry..'.'

  The cream stretch limo was waiting for them and Newman took the wheel. Paula sat beside him and Tweed rode in the back. Tweed had once visited Blankenese and navigated for them.

  It didn't seem to take long for them to leave behind the massive, stately buildings which were Hamburg and then they were driving along a rustic road with trees in leaf. Paula gazed out and to each side they began to pass imposing mansions set back from the road with manicured lawns in front of them. The architecture varied enormously – there were mansions in the old style, square and solidly built, but others were more imaginative with long frontages, thatched roofs and strange turret-like towers. Each property, she guessed, would cost a fortune to buy.

  'Marler and Nield are not far behind us in the Opel,' Newman remarked. 'Not a bad idea, maybe. It's rather lonely out here.'

  'We're approaching the house,' Tweed warned from the back. 'I can see a sign ahead pointing to a side road. Taxusweg. Rondel scribbled that as a landmark when he gave me the address.'

  Newman slowed, indicated right. A warning to Marler they were close. As he had anticipated, Marler turned down Taxusweg. To park discreetly, Newman guessed.

  'This big house well back,' Tweed warned. 'Turn along the drive.'

  Newman swung into the wide entrance, flanked by two pillars, each surmounted with an elegant lantern. The front garden was like a small park with lawns and beautiful specimen trees. But no electronically powered gates, Paula thought – and no sign of guards. You just drove in.

  There were other lanterns perched on steel posts scattered amid the trees. This place must look even more glorious after dark with the lanterns lit, she mused. A large long mansion built of white stone came into view. Newman parked close to the main entrance, a pair of heavy oaken doors.

  'Well,' said Tweed, before alighting. 'Let's hope here is where we find the key to what is really going on.'

  Both doors were opened with a flourish by a tall uniformed chauffeur. A Daimler was parked near the corner of the mansion. Tweed studied the chauffeur intently. Not the usual chauffeur – even by the standards of those working for rich men. He had brown hair trimmed short, a strongly featured face, and was in his thirties, but it was the eyes that caught Tweed's attention. They were exceptionally intelligent, and the man moved athletically.

  'Yes, I'm Tweed.'

  'You are expected, sir,' the chauffeur replied in faultless English. 'If you would wait in the hall for just a few moments…"

  Left to themselves in the spacious hall, Tweed noticed a Louis Vuitton case standing against a wall. He bent down. Someone had tucked in below the handle a Bordkane, or a boarding pass. Lufthansa. From BER to HAM. Dated the previous day. Someone had flown back from Berlin to Hamburg in the afternoon – on the day Kuhlmann had reported that Kurt Kruger, aide to the Deputy Chancellor, had been murdered.

  Tweed was holding the pass in his hand when Rondel entered like a whirlwind, clad in riding gear.

  'Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!'

  He bowed, took Paula's right hand, kissed it, looked up at her with a broad smile. She found she rather liked a gesture she would not normally have found acceptable. Tweed held up the printed slip.

  'I found this boarding pass from Berlin to Hamburg lying on the floor. It must have slipped out of the case.'

  'That belongs to Danzer, the chauffeur who greeted you. He flew to Berlin and back again yesterday.' Rondel grinned. 'He has a new girlfriend. He collects and dismisses them as though they were playing cards… Please excuse my attire. I have an engagement to go riding

  … Want to come?' he asked Paula.

  'It's a long time since I sat on a horse. Thank you, but I think I need a quiet day. Yesterday was rather hectic. I did enjoy the dinner, though.'

  'You couldn't have enjoyed it as much as I revelled in having a chat with you… I couldn't sleep last night. Your image kept coming into my mind…'

  He was talking as he had at the restaurant. In rapid bursts that demonstrated the extraordinary quickness of his mind. He waved towards the interior of the house.

  'My partner is waiting for you. Or rather, he would like to see Tweed alone, if that is not too impolite… Paula, you and Bob can come with me… we will enjoy a drink together. I am hoping Bob, the famous international foreign correspondent, can tell us what is wrong with the world. If both of you would like to make yourselves comfortable in this room…' He was leading them towards a closed door. '… I will be back in a tick.'

  He turned to Tweed, who had slipped the boarding pass under the handle of the case.

  'Please, Mr Tweed, let me escort you…'

  Inside the room she had been shown into with Newman, Paula remained standing. It kept going through her head. Lisa concussed, after the blow Delgado had struck her back home at Reefers Wharf. The message she had desperately tried to get across, hardly able to speak.

  Ham… Dan… Four S.

  Ham had been Hamburg. Four S had been Four Seasons Hotel. Dan. Couldn't that have been Danzer, the chauffeur who had shown them in?

  After opening another door at the rear of the hall, where gilt-framed portraits of men of earlier times were hung, Rondel accompanied Tweed down a long hall to a door at the far end. This opened on to a large conservatory full of different plants. His partner sat facing them in a wickerwork chair with a high straight back.

  In front of the c
hair on a glass-topped table were the remains of a meal. His partner had been holding the silver box close to his mouth while he manipulated one of the ivory toothpicks. He closed the lid quickly, tucked it inside a pocket of his linen jacket.

  'The gentleman you are so anxious to see,' Rondel said.

  'Thank you. Do not let his two colleagues leave. I wish to pay my respects to them later,' the seated man ordered.

  'Let us go into the garden, Mr Tweed,' the partner suggested, rising, holding out his hand. 'There we can talk without inhibition. May I offer you a drink?'

  He was speaking slowly, each word enunciated with clarity. Not from age, Tweed guessed, but from temperament. A very careful man.

  'Just water, please…'

  His host opened a door, ushered Tweed, holding his glass of water, into what seemed more like a beautiful park with an abundance of flowers. Especially hydrangeas. Paved walkways wended their way in all directions, disappearing round curves. They strolled slowly and Tweed kept quiet, leaving his strange host to choose a subject.

  'I will tell you something very few people in the world know. My name is Milo Slavic. Which shows I trust you.'

  'Why should you?' Tweed asked outright.

  'Because before I get even a little close to someone I have him checked out meticulously.' He drew out the word as m-e-t-i-c-u-l-o-u-s~l-y. 'I have had you checked out on two continents. You are a unique man. I never flatter.'

  'So what did you want with me?'

  'Direct, too. Do you believe that, with all the weakness of present Western governments, we need something stronger?'

  'Depends on how strong. In the last century we have had Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Josef Stalin. Do we need men as strong as that?'

  'There was chaos when those men took power. The masses were frightened, looked for strength. Perhaps it may have to happen again?'

  'Are you related to an earlier member of the Frankenheim Dynasty?' Tweed asked suddenly.

  'Ah!' His host chuckled, an odd sound. 'History sometimes does repeat itself. You know about the Frankenheims – I can tell. The first Frankenheim took the name, pretended to be a Jew, made himself indispensable to Mayer Amschel, that brilliant man who created Rothschild. We are back in the late 1790s. Frankenheim, as he continued to call himself, then learnt all the tricks of the profession from his mentor – left him, founded his own bank in Paris. Jump forward to 1940. As a very young man I met the last of the Frankenheims, who had no son, no heir. I was naturally gifted in mathematics, in accountancy and solved for him a problem he had found insoluble. He obtained a Swiss passport for rne, as he had for himself, and soon I was Director of his bank in Zurich. When he died I found he had appointed me his heir. I have simplified a rather complicated history.'