The Janus Man tac-4

by Colin Forbes

  `Freshen up your glass?'

  Dalby skipped into the room, followed by Diana, who now had a single rose projecting from between her breasts. She had a dreamy look as she sank into her arm chair.

  `Not for me, thank you. I'm driving,' Tweed replied. 'Find a weed?' he asked Diana as Dalby replenished her glass. `Nary one. And I looked!'

  `No champagne then,' Dalby said crisply. 'Thought that I was safe.' He refilled his own glass, sat down and gestured towards the French windows. 'We could have gone out that way, but it would have taken an hour to deal with the security locks.'

  `Your Doukhobor lady is coming back?' Tweed enquired. 'I saw signs of a meal being prepared in the kitchen.'

  `That was me. It's her day off, blast the woman. I hate cooking.' He smiled briefly. 'Never do anything in life if you can get someone else to do it for you. The road to achievement. And may I ask when can we all get back to our respective headquarters, get on with something worthwhile?'

  He was the only one of the four who had asked that question. A sign of his impatience. Again, par for the course with Dalby. `Soon,' Tweed replied. 'I'll be in touch.'

  `Are the natives friendly round here?' Diana asked.

  `Not if I can help it. Bunch of robots. Don't know why those little yen men have to invent mechanical versions. I'm surrounded with them.'

  `Robots? I don't believe I understand,' Diana queried.

  `See the keep-fit merchants walking past that window at the front every weekday. And it's quite a hike to Woking station. All dressed alike. Regulation uniform. Brief-case at the ready. Executives they call themselves. Work for one of the big corporations up in town. A lot in oil, as they say. At a party they even talk alike, use the same jargon. Like a code language only the initiated understand. Robots. Maybe they manufacture them on some huge conveyor belt at a secret factory.'

  `What an absolutely lovely description. But it must be lonesome for you,' she suggested.

  `I'm hardly ever here. The Doukhobor has a key. Keeps the place up to scratch while I insure the world against imaginary perils.'

  `Imaginary?'

  `Guy is a cynic,' Tweed explained. 'And I think we'd better get back. We have a dinner date. With a couple of pheasants.'

  `Then I'm ready!' Diana jumped up out of her chair. 'You must excuse my manners,' she said to Dalby and smiled with her eyes half-closed. 'It's just that I adore pheasant.'

  `Mustn't keep the gentleman waiting then.' Dalby stood up. `Bathroom before you go?'

  `Yes, please. No! Don't show me. I saw it. Off the hall by the front door…'

  There was a brief silence between the two men as they waited. Dalby walked over to the French windows, right hand thrust into his jacket pocket, thumb protruding. It reminded Tweed of pictures he'd seen of Hitler. The drooping catlick served to heighten the impression.

  `I'll be glad to get back to Bern,' Dalby said quietly. He turned suddenly, grunted with pain and grabbed at his right kneecap, stooping over. Then he straightened up and shook his head.

  `Touch of arthritis. Catches you when you least expect it. Ah, here is your lady…'

  He escorted them to their car, shook hands formally with Diana and opened the door for her. He said 'Goodbye,' left it at that as she swung her legs inside and made sure her dress had come in with her. Tweed nodded, got behind the wheel and turned into the drive beyond the house leading to a double garage, backing out again into the road.

  Dalby stood quite still, then turned on his heel, went back inside the house and closed the door as Tweed drove off. They had passed through West Byfleet, heading back to London, when Diana made her remark.

  `He was very quiet when we left.'

  `That's Dalby. He'd said "Goodbye", observed the courtesies, so there was nothing to add. Very sparing with words, our Guy. What did you think of him?'

  `Very balanced, very normal… What's the matter?' Tweed had swerved slightly on a deserted stretch of straight road. Normal. The very word he had himself applied to Dalby.

  He glanced at the rose at her breast.

  `Nothing. Go on.'

  `Oh, it's the rose!' She was amused. 'It doesn't mean a thing.

  I made a big fuss about his roses. He asked me in his clipped way whether I'd like one to take back. I said yes. He went into a shed he's got right at the end of the garden, came out with a pair of garden gloves and secateurs. He snipped off a rose, used his gloves to break off the thorns and handed it to me. Then he went off back to the shed to leave the gloves and clippers. He couldn't have been more matter-of- fact.'

  What is his attitude to women?'

  `Indifference. He's polite, courteous, but his main interest in life is his job. Women come a poor second. I think that's all I can say about him. There were moments when I thought he was playing a part – the part of a man with iron self-discipline. Just normal. Very normal.'

  They came to a three-way roundabout. Tweed swung the wheel and took the second turn-off. `I think this time we'll avoid Weybridge, go a different way back. Along the Portsmouth Road. Hope you're a good sailor.'

  'Why?'

  `A section called the Seven Hills ahead. Regular switchback. Here we go.'

  `Can we call at the flat before we have dinner? I'd like to change into something devastating.'

  `Can't wait…'

  In the large sitting-room inside Newman's flat Tweed found himself humming a tune. Diana was changing in the bedroom. What the devil was the tune he thought as he picked up off a couch her handbag? That blasted tango. Jealousy.

  He rifled through the handbag quickly with expert hands – careful to disturb nothing. Under her suede cosmetic sac he found a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes. He counted them quickly. Six hundred and fifty pounds. Since he'd previously checked she'd acquired from somewhere another four hundred pounds. He closed the bag, replaced it exactly as he'd found it on the couch. She came into the room thirty seconds later.

  `Is my handbag somewhere here? Yes, there it is.' She was wearing a flimsy dressing gown. She tucked the bag under her arm. `Give me five minutes and I'll devastate you.'

  Thirty-Three

  They again dined at Tweed's favourite restaurant, and again occupied the same booth for four people, sitting by the wall and facing each other. Diana looked round as she sipped at her aperitif, Cinzano. Tweed had contented himself with a glass of the white house wine.

  `I love this place,' Diana enthused. 'And not just the food. The atmosphere too. I'm not sure how they've done it.'

  `The pink table cloths and napkins, the intimate layout, the attentive service,' Tweed diagnosed. `Spend a fortune in Harrods?' he enquired jocularly.

  `Not one penny! I'm saving up.' She smiled. 'Being so very strong-willed.'

  `How are you off for money? Still some travellers' cheques left?'

  `Don't use them.' She drank the rest of the Cinzano. 'You will chide me, but I only carry cash. That's why I always carry my handbag with me. No, I haven't a banking account in London. Years since I've been here. Ooh! Here's the pheasant. You spoil me, Tweedy.'

  She waited until they were served before asking the question.

  `When do we fly back to Germany? You were a bit vague when Dalby asked. Dedicated man. Obviously champing at the bit to get back to Bern. And you will be coming back with me, won't you?'

  `Eat your pheasant before it gets cold.'

  `I chatter too much, don't I? It's just that I'm enjoying myself so much.'

  `First answer. We fly back to Hamburg soon. I'll try to come with you – but don't hold me to it. And, yes. Dedicated is the word for Dalby. I see you left behind the rose he gave to you.'

  `Plonked it in a vase of water in the bedroom.' Tweed had ordered a bottle of Montrachet. She watched him over her glass. 'I might have worn it if you'd given it to me.'

  `Finish your pheasant. The desserts here are good…'

  He drove her back to the flat, she invited him in for a nightcap, he refused, saying he had notes to make, promised to phone her i
n the morning and drove on to Park Crescent.

  Monica, whom he had phoned from the flat while Diana was changing for dinner, was waiting for him behind her desk. He sighed as he put his raincoat on a hanger, went behind his own desk.

  `I don't know why you work for me. The awful hours I ask you to keep. Any sensible woman would have thrown the job in my face years ago.'

  `And how would I have spent my days back at the flat down in Pimlico? Talking to Jonathan the cat? I find his conversation rather limited. Can I report now on what you asked me to do?'

  `I'm all ears.'

  The building was very quiet at 11.30 at night. Everyone had gone home except the security guard on the front door. The curtains were drawn across the windows and there was no sound of any traffic. A time of night Tweed liked, when his brain was at its most active.

  `I called Peter Toll at Pullach. Very defensive. Nothing on Newman. Peter pleaded for two more days..

  `That's all he's got.' Tweed's expression was grim. 'Then I lower the boom on him, contact his chief. Bob is somewhere out there behind the Iron Curtain.' He glanced at the wall map. `I feel it in my bones. Now, what does that remind me of? Something Guy Dalby said. No matter. Go on.'

  `We still have Harry Butler holding Walther Prohl, Toll's man, at Heathrow. The security chief was getting restless, so Harry invoked the Official Secrets Act. Is Prohl still on hold?'

  `Definitely, but transfer him to Wisbech from Heathrow.'

  `To keep up the pressure on Toll?'

  `No. It's an attempt to protect Newman. It will have been reported to Markus Wolf that a man looking like Newman – and travelling under his name – flew out of Germany. It may just confuse my old opponent. Next?'

  I phoned Kuhlmann again. He reports Dr Berlin has still not reappeared at his home on Priwall Island. They're searching but can't get even a whisper of where he's gone.'

  `Bad news. It looks more and more as if I'm right. Don't ask me anything. I just hoped to God I was wrong. Any more murders of young blonde girls?'

  `No.'

  `Which again confirms the pattern I'm building up. Pretty horrific – for us.'

  `Be mysterious. Now you and Diana have seen all four sector chiefs on home ground, have you found anything out?'

  `Yes and no.' Tweed leaned back in his swivel chair. 'And I need that wall map changed tomorrow. Replaced by one of the whole of Western Europe – including Britain and Scandinavia. A much larger stage is involved than I suspected at first.'

  `That reminds me. Do you know a Chief Inspector Bernard Carson? Scotland Yard. Central Drug Squad..'

  `Yes, when he was with the CID. A tough customer. Why?'

  `He wants to come and see you urgently tomorrow. I made an appointment – provisional, subject to my confirming early in the morning. At ten o'clock.'

  `Confirm.' Tweed wrinkled his forehead. 'I wonder what he can possibly want?'

  `You'll find out when you see him. Should I make myself scarce?'

  `Wait till he arrives. So that's it?'

  `No. You were going to tell me about your visits with the glamorous Diana..

  `Glamorous? Why do you say that? You haven't even seen her.'

  `Just the way you talk about her.' Monica smiled cynically.

  `Well, for starters, during one of those visits she acquired another? 400. In cash. Twenty-pound notes. I told you that I'd checked her handbag…'

  `You haven't pried again!'

  `I have. Earlier this evening at Newman's flat when we'd got back from seeing Dalby. Over dinner she confirmed she has no bank account here, that she doesn't use travellers' cheques. She had? 250 when I first checked. Now, out of the blue she has another? 400. So who gave it to her?'

  `I think you're downright unethical. A woman's handbag is sacred…'

  `Nothing's sacred when I'm tracking treachery, maybe even a mass murderer.'

  `All right. Now, you have total recall. She carried this handbag on each visit? Good. Did she keep it with her during each visit? Who of the four had the opportunity to slip her money?'

  She waited, placing a pencil between her teeth, lightly holding the stem. Tweed closed his eyes and concentrated. His visual memory was phenomenal. He started talking, eyes still closed.

  `Harry Masterson was first. Clematis Cottage. He took her off to show her the upstairs, but she left her handbag on a settee. That was when I first checked to see how much money she had. At no time did she have it with her when she was alone with Harry.'

  `Not conclusive. Women have places on their person where they can conceal twenty banknotes. Inside her tights is one place.'

  `The next one we visited was Lindemann,' Tweed said as he saw in his mind their entering the lodge at the corner of the mews. 'Don't think there was anything there…'

  `Except dusty tomes,' Monica commented caustically.

  `Just a minute! Don't say anything. There was something. I remember Diana suggested she'd like to see his kitchen. They went in together and were alone for quite several minutes. When Diana came out she had that handbag tucked under her arm. That money could have been handed to her then.'

  `What about Hugh Grey?'

  Eyes still closed tightly, Tweed moved in his mind to Hawkswood Farm. Hugh bustling down the weed-strewn garden path to greet them, Paula staying at the door. The big sitting-room, the dyke rising up in the distance.

  `Grey took her for a walk. Quite a long one while I chatted with Paula. He could easily have handed her the wad while they were outside.'

  `That leaves Dalby…'

  `Who took her outside to look at the back garden while I stayed inside. Another opportunity.'

  `So any of them could have handed her the dibs. Back to square one. What was Diana's impression of them? Like some coffee? I made some just before you came in. It's in the thermos.'

  `Yes, please.'

  He went on talking while Monica opened the top drawer of one of the steel filing cabinets, took out two brown mugs, the thermos and a carton of milk.

  `She loved Harry, thought he was great fun…'

  `She has good taste.'

  `She even liked Lindemann, which surprised me. Hugh Grey she didn't like at all. The idiot made a pass at her while they were out walking..

  `Should have been Harry. That's his prerogative.' She put a paper place mat on Tweed's desk, perched the mug on top. `There you are. Black as sin. That leaves Dalby.'

  `She admired him. Said he was dedicated. As for his attitude to women, she thought it was take-them-or-leave-them. Work came first.'

  `She's shrewd as well as a man-eater. Don't like the sound of her at all.'

  `Why a man-eater?'

  `From what you've said she had them all dancing round her at the end of a string. A man's woman. Other women probably hate her guts. Which means they wish they had her power over men. Why is she so important? You've watched over her like a mistress ever since she arrived…'

  `Because she's a witness.' Tweed suddenly jumped up from behind his desk. 'God! What a fool I've been. I've shown her to all of them – and one of them is Janus. She needs round-the-clock protection. Get Pete Nield on the phone for me…'

  `At this hour? He'll be asleep in his flat at Highgate…'

  `I said get him on the phone! Tell him to drive down here the moment he's dressed. I'll be waiting for him.'

  `Anything you say. My, she really is something, this Diana…'

  Tweed was agitated. Monica watched him as she made the call to Nield. He prowled restlessly round the office. He pulled the flaps out of his jacket pocket, straightened them. He clapped the palms of his hands against his backside. He fiddled with his tie. Couldn't keep still.

  She finished the brief call, put down the phone and tried to calm him by talking.

  `Nield is on his way. Expects to be here inside thirty minutes. No traffic on the roads at this hour. Now, did you notice anything significant during your visits? You wanted to see them on their home ground.'

  `Yes, I did. A landing-stage
projecting into The Wash. It had recently been reinforced with fresh timber. Then Clematis Cottage. Masterson loathes the sea. I went to the lavatory, opened the window. Leaning against a shed with other rubbish was a ship's wheel. Not ten minutes' drive away I found a large power cruiser called Nocturne. Chopin composed nocturnes…'

  `I do know that…'

  `No one was about. I climbed aboard, peered inside the wheelhouse. The vessel had what looked like a brand new wheel. In Lindemann's bathroom I opened a wall cupboard. There was a bottle of sable hair colourant. He doesn't drink. In a cupboard in his sitting-room I found half a glass of Scotch. At Dalby's place I found nothing…'

  `Thank God for that. My head's spinning…'

  `Except in the kitchen. Dalby had been slicing French beans. No sign of the knife. That's it.'

  `My, we have been a busy little bee. Might I enquire how all those different things link up?'

  `I've no idea…'

  `So I might not enquire. Drink your coffee. Nield will roll in soon now.'

  `You asked how these things link up. That's the point. I'm convinced there's a link missing.'

  `Wouldn't it be strange if Bob Newman supplied the missing link?'

  Part 2 Death Cargo

  Thirty-Four

  It was 1 a.m. Moscow time. Inside his large office in the four-storey building visitors to the Kremlin never see, Mikhail Gorbachev stood staring at General Vasili Lysenko. He wore a smart grey two-piece suit, a white shirt, a red tie.

  His large thick-fingered hands rested splayed on the conference table which separated him from his visitor who stood stiff as an automaton. Gorbachev's large rounded head was stooped, his lips pouched. A distant bell chimed once.

  `I had you flown here at short notice from Leipzig,' Gorbachev began in his quick, choppy way of speaking, 'because the consignment of heroin for England has now reached Leningrad. Ready for shipment. The largest amount of heroin ever transported as one consignment my advisers tell me. Five hundred kilos.'

  `It is enormous…'