Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'A man called to ask if you were in.'

  'Leave a name?'

  'Just puts down the phone on me when I say no.'

  Inside her room Paula examined the envelope with Butler while Nield peered out between the curtains.

  'This has been opened.' Paula decided. 'Then it has been crudely stuck down again.'

  'Old Nosy behind the counter.' Butler remarked.

  She opened up the envelope, took out the folded map and the note. The message was short. A courier will come tonight with a number giving my location. 22.00 hours.

  'Jean is being very security-minded. I don't like this.'

  She spread the map open on the only table in the cramped room. Number One was inscribed above a cross with 'Villa Rose' written in. Number Two had an inscription, 'Crossroads'. Number Three was inscribed 'Boathouse'. She gave the map to Butler, checked her watch, 9.45 p.m.

  'Harry, you be navigator when the courier arrives with the rendezvous. I wish to God he'd hurry up. There isn't much time. The precautions she's taken - I wish I'd been here when she called in.'

  'Let's just relax and see what happens.' Butler reassured her. 'From what I saw and heard at the Villa Forban she's a resourceful woman.'

  'I'll go downstairs and wait for this courier.' Nield said and left the room.

  He was back within a minute, his manner urgent as he rushed into the room when Butler opened the door. Nield took hold of Paula's arm.

  'He insists on handing it to you. Be quick. That clerk is kicking up about him being inside the hotel...'

  Paula ran downstairs, closely followed by Nield as Butler leaned over the banister, his Walther held behind his back. A scruffy-looking man with a day's beard on his chin was glaring at the clerk. He turned, moved towards Paula, handed her an envelope.

  'I was given your description,' he said in Provencal French. 'I had to give it to you personally. No other person.'

  'Thank you. Can I give you something?'

  'I've been well paid.'

  The down-and-out tipped his soiled hat to Paula, glared again at the clerk, left the hotel. In her room Paula ripped open the envelope. A sheet of folded paper in the same handwriting as the previous note carried the terse message. Number Three.

  'It's the boathouse,' Paula said. 'Between Gujan and Facture. Guide me, Harry,' she said as she was leaving the room.

  'I'll drive,' Nield offered as they ran down the stairs.

  'No, damnit! I'll drive,' Paula snapped as they reached the street. I don't like any of this one little bit.'

  Jean Burgoyne stood on the verandah of the boathouse smoking a cigarette. She rarely smoked but her nerves were stretched to breaking point. She shielded the light of the cigarette with her left hand. Huddled in a sheepskin coat, she had found the interior claustrophobic. The only sound was the lapping of the water against the piles. At the end of the verandah was a creek, the shell of a small craft lying in the stagnant water.

  The boathouse was perched close to the edge of the bassin. Abandoned, at one time a slipway had led across marshland to the water. Now only the outer struts of the slipway were left and all around was an air of decay.

  The verandah had wooden steps leading up to it at either end. One flight from firm ground where Jean had mounted the verandah; the other at the far end leading down to the lonely creek. She had parked her Rover in a shallow bowl by the side of the wide track leading off the road to the boathouse. The quiet lapping of the water in the middle of the boathouse, where an inlet from the bassin reached it, would normally have been a soothing sound. At night, in this remote spot, it was getting on her nerves.

  She had chosen this rendezvous because it was well away from any other habitation. She felt convinced that de Forge would have discovered her absence, that she was in danger. She was determined to hand to Paula the notes of Operation Marengo attached to her upper leg. It was an outrageous plan, a plot for a coup. It was vital the details reached Paris.

  She heard a creak. Like a footstep on old wood. Flattening herself against the wall of the verandah, she held her cigarette cupped in the palm of her hand, listened, stared at the steps from firm ground. There was no repetition of the sound. She let out a sigh, straightened up. Old wood creaked by itself.

  She had thought of waiting at the Atlantique, hoping Paula would appear at any moment. But she hadn't liked the way the leering night clerk had kept glancing at her surreptitiously. If she could bribe him so could anyone. And any search would start with the few hotels open in Arcachon. It had seemed safer to wait at an out of the way refuge.

  She dropped her cigarette over the railing into the water. It fizzled, went out. She wasn't risking stubbing it out on the ancient planks beneath her feet. The last thing she wanted was for the place to go up in flames. Then she heard two other faint sounds. The noise of car engines. Probably passing on the main road. But the sounds stopped. Had she heard two cars? She wasn't sure: sound travelled a long distance at night. She shivered. It was horribly cold. But she was honest with herself: she had shivered with fear.

  The strain of spending months at the Villa Forban had at last taken its toll. The strain of ministering to the needs of de Forge, of coaxing him into saying too much, of sending back secret reports to Paris. While it was going on the adrenalin had kept her cool and calculating. Now she'd left it behind she was suffering a reaction. God, she'd be glad to get back to Aldeburgh, to Admiralty House, to the peace and quiet of her uncle's home and his intelligent conversation - conversation she could listen to without memorizing every word.

  The wood creaked again. She stiffened. The sound had been different, the creak stronger - as though under pressure from the tread of someone heavy. With her back against the wall she slithered towards the steps leading down to the creek. Then remained motionless. The slurp of the water reminded her of the movement of a shark. Absurd! Get a hold on yourself, girl. Then she saw the enormous shadow appearing above the steps from firm ground. The silhouette of a large figure. She couldn't see the face. That horrified her.

  This was for real. The planks creaked ominously as the figure advanced towards her. Jean ran in the opposite direction. She reached the steps leading down to the creek. She hurried down them and heard the squelch of other feet in the soggy ground close behind her. She swung round, suddenly remembered the Mauser she'd tucked in her coat pocket. She grabbed at the butt, hauled out the weapon. She was terrified.

  Her night vision was good. She saw why she hadn't seen a face. The man wore a Balaclava helmet. One large hand grasped her wrist, twisted it, nearly broke it and she dropped the Mauser. Two hands fastened themselves round her throat, two gloved hands, the thumbs pressing expertly against her windpipe. She stumbled back into the old boat and his weight pressed on top of her. Not for a second was the remorseless squeeze on her throat relaxed. Jean Burgoyne's last view of this world was the Balaclava helmet, the cold eyes staring down at her through the slits. The vision began blurring, then faded for ever.

  The killer stood up, breathing heavily. He crouched to search her and heard the sound of approaching cars. He jumped up, made his way, crouched low, across the marsh, his rubber boots sinking into the mush. Later he reached the car he had parked some distance from the boathouse where an eerie silence had descended.

  Yvette Mourlon had followed Jean Burgoyne when she'd left the Atlantique. When she saw her quarry making for the boathouse she'd elevated her aerial, reported the location. Then she had remained parked a good way off from the boathouse which, she suspected, was a killing ground.

  Yvette had a crush on de Forge. What might occur inside the boathouse to the rich well-dressed woman concerned her not at all. Yvette loved only one thing more than de Forge money.

  Chapter Forty

  'There's the boathouse. Pray to God we're in time.'

  Paula spoke as she drove like hell along the road with her headlights undimmed. There was no other traffic at this hour, so what the devil did it matter. She had the bit between her teeth and,
beside her, Butler was careful not to speak.

  'Bleak-looking bloody spot,' Nield commented in the back.

  Paula slowed, searching for the track leading off to the left. Her headlights picked it up and she swung on to the track, headlights blazing. A signal to Jean that she was coming, that help was very close and she wouldn't be alone much longer.

  Jamming on the brakes in the lee of the boathouse, she reached for the handle of the door. Butler's restraining hand gripped her arm.

  'Better leave me to go first...'

  'Get your bloody hand off me! I'm in a hurry.'

  Wrenching the door open, she jumped out, unzipping her shoulder bag, extracting her Browning .32. Her other hand hauled out a torch from her coat pocket. As she climbed the steps Butler was close behind her, Walther in his hand.

  Paula slowed down when she arrived on the verandah, swivelling her torch beam. She tried the door into the boathouse half-way along the verandah, flashed the beam over an ancient yacht, its hull falling to pieces. Was Jean unsure who had arrived?

  'Paula here. Jean, it's Paula with friends. Are you in there?'

  Only when there was no answering reply did she proceed further along the verandah, aiming the beam ahead in case one of the planks was rotted. She didn't want to fall through, ending up in the lapping water. She arrived at the end of the verandah where another flight of steps led down.

  Nield had stayed with the car. He heard another vehicle approaching, slipped out of the vehicle on the side furthest away from the road. He crouched low as headlights illuminated his car, gripped the Walther more firmly.

  Paula's flashlight had also shown up smudged footprints of mud, large footprints, too large for Jean. She paused at the top of the steps, again aiming the beam. It stopped moving suddenly. She froze. Close behind her Butler whispered.

  'What is it?'

  'Oh, my God! Not again! Please! Not again ...'

  She ran down the steps and over the short stretch of the marsh. Stopping afresh, she held the torch steady with sheer will-power. The body sprawled on its back inside the wreck of a craft. The blond hair splayed over the stern. The creek with its oily surface, the ooze. It was Aldeburgh all over again. She gritted her teeth as Butler pushed past her, leant over the corpse, using his own flashlight.

  'Stay where you are, Paula.'

  She nearly jumped out of her skin as a hand grasped her arm. It was Newman's voice. She turned to face him, the last person she'd expected to meet during this horrific experience.

  'Bob. Thank heaven. She's dead, isn't she?'

  Even as she spoke she heard herself and thought it was a stupid question. The ugly bruisings and swellings on Jean Burgoyne's neck had been only too apparent in the beam of her torch. She turned to follow Butler and Newman stopped her.

  'Wait here. Don't move an inch.'

  'She was going to give me some valuable papers.'

  'I told you not to move one inch. Pete is back-up at the other end of the verandah.'

  Newman joined Butler, treading over the spongy grass. He bent alongside the other man. It was an ugly spectacle. Burgoyne's eyes were starting out of her head. Her throat was a brutalized mess. Mangled. But her mane of blond hair was still beautiful. Pathetic was the word which occurred to Newman.

  The bottom of her sheepskin had been ripped open, a button torn away. Gently he lifted the coat higher, exposing her skirt, which had also been thrust up in her struggle for life. Something was protruding below her panties. Delicately he lifted the panties higher up her long slim leg. A polythene envelope was attached to her body with sticking plaster. You're not supposed to fiddle around with a murder victim, he thought. He pulled at the tape, released the polythene envelope, pulled down her panties.

  'I think the killer heard us coming,' he called up as he approached Paula, his tone matter-of-fact. 'So he failed in his search. She may not have died in vain.'

  Putting arm round her, he led her back along the verandah. She walked like a zombie, remembered she was still holding the Browning. She slipped it back inside her shoulder bag. He kept his arm round her as she descended the steps, walked back to the car. Beyond, Newman's own Renault was parked.

  'I'm all right.' she said as they reached the car.

  'You're damn well not.'

  'No, I'm not! Oh, Bob, it was just like Karin at Aldeburgh. She was found strangled. She was left like some unwanted child's doll in an old boat. It's exactly the same nightmare all over again. If ever we find out who did these things I'll shoot him myself. I'll empty my whole bloody gun into his guts...'

  Then, as Newman was hoping, she broke. Sobbing, she buried her head against his chest. He clasped his arms round her, hugged her to him, stroked the back of her neck, her hair. Gradually the shuddering left her body. Butler and Nield had tactfully stayed at a distance, both with guns in their hands, both surveying their surroundings. Paula tugged the handkerchief out of her shoulder bag, dried her eyes, looked up at Newman.

  'I don't care what her relationship with de Forge was -she was a good woman. I was beginning to like her very much. I suspect she was very brave, that she had been spying on that swine.'

  'You could be right.' Newman held up the envelope. 'We can look at this when we are well away from here. There could be reinforcements. And we don't want the locals in on this.'

  'Legally, I suppose...'

  'Damn the law. De Forge is the law here. This is a job for Lasalle. I'm phoning him from the hotel. And I'm getting you well clear of this area.'

  Paula had recovered, was standing away from him, tidying up her coat. She shook her head.

  'I'm not leaving here until Tweed orders me out. I came to do a job. Jean's dead, but I'm alive.'

  'I'd like to keep it that way.' Newman told her and led her to his Renault.

  *

  'How on earth did you happen to turn up when you did?' Paula asked.

  They were driving back to Arcachon with Butler and Nield in the other car close behind. Newman was moving fast as he explained.

  'When Moshe and I arrived from the Landes we flopped out in the Atlantique for twenty-four hours. You were out when I surfaced. I decided to visit Isabelle, which I did. I was just arriving back at the Atlantique when I saw you diving into a car and driving off like a bat out of hell. I decided to follow to see what was up.'

  'You saw. I hate leaving Jean like that. Seems awful.'

  'So what was the alternative? We take the body away and then what? Inform the local gendarmes and we're up to our neck in trouble. Worse still, we could be immobilized. You think Tweed would like that - just when France is exploding? Now there have been anti-American and anti-Arab riots in Marseilles. It's spreading.'

  'How do you know that?'

  'Isabelle has been listening to the radio, watching TV. She said there have been a lot of casualties. And our old friends, the Balaclava mob egging things on.'

  'You mentioned the Landes. How did you get on there?'

  'Talk about that later.' Newman said grimly. 'Now I just hope we can reach Tweed and Lasalle. De Forge's world is closing in on us.'

  In Paris, Tweed had experienced a disturbing evening. The courier Monica had sent with his forged press card had arrived. Lasalle had told him Josette de Forge was holding one of her 'salons' starting at eight o'clock.

  Arriving by cab in Passy, Tweed had told the driver to drop him a few doors from the address he was making for.

  As he walked up to the elegant terrace house facing a small park he saw limousines pulling up, disgorging the guests. Among them he recognized Louis Janin, Minister of Defence and catspaw of General de Forge. The flunkey at the door asked him if he had an invitation.

  'Press.' said Tweed. 'Tell Madame de Forge I'm from the Daily World. And hurry it up. It's cold out here. If you're not back in three minutes I won't be here. But I'll make a phone call to Madame tomorrow - and I doubt whether you'll be on the staff any more. My card ...'

  As he waited other guests arrived in limousines, all
wearing evening dress. Some of the women sported a fortune in jewels. Tweed, in his neat business suit, felt quite at ease. Why should he dress up for this nest of vipers?

  The flunkey returned, hurrying, his manner very different. He ushered Tweed inside, took his coat, led the way across the red carpeted hall into a large room crammed with guests. The room was tastefully furnished and illuminated with glittering chandeliers. There were pictures on the wall and Tweed thought one was a Gauguin.

  The flunkey had to edge his way through the chattering throng, their babble punctuated by the clink of champagne glasses. Tweed noticed a full general in uniform. Masson, Army Chief of Staff. He shouldn't have attended. Then he was ushered into the presence.

  Josette de Forge was a tall, slim woman clad in a black velvet dress which showed to advantage her superb figure. A commanding woman who was also chic, her long sleek black hair was tied in a chignon. The dress was low-cut, exposing her excellent shoulders and held up more by hope .than by gravity. Her dark eyes surveyed Tweed as she held his card and he quickly realized she was putting herself out to charm him.

  'The Daily World, Mr Prentice. You are most welcome to my little salon. Champagne?' She summoned a waiter and Tweed reluctantly took a glass. 'Come and sit with me so we can talk.' she continued in English. 'All these people. It really is simply too dreadful. But you ask one, you have to ask so many others. They so easily take offence if not invited...'