by Colin Forbes
'On the radio, TV and in the paper! I feel frightened. Is this place a death-trap?'
'We'll be out of here soon.'
They had wandered out on to the terrace and as the cars' engines faded the silence of the moor descended on them. It was late afternoon and would be dark within the hour. Paula was taking in deep breaths of fresh air to cope with what Tweed had told her. After a few minutes they were going inside when she grasped Tweed's arm.
'Listen… Horses' hooves.'
They waited as the clip-clop came closer. Two riders appeared, approaching the manor along the drive – a man and a woman. Tweed went back out on to the terrace as the newcomers halted at the foot of the steps. The man, large and with a hawklike face beneath a deerstalker, barked out his question.
'Who the blazes are you?'
'I might ask you the same question,' Tweed snapped back.
'I'm Gregory Gaunt. And I just happen to own this damned place.'
5
'Welcome to Tresillian Manor,' Gaunt said breezily. He had accompanied the girl to leave the horses in a stable on the left side of the house. 'I thought Amberg and all his guests would have pushed off by now. It was a flying visit from Zurich.'
'Stop here a moment, please,' Tweed said as they reached the terrace. There's something you should know before you go inside. You're in for a ghastly shock.'
'Shock? What kind of shock?' boomed Gaunt. 'A burglary? Is that it? Spit it out, man.'
Gaunt was six feet tall, heavily built, muscular and about forty, Tweed estimated. His complexion was weather-beaten under thick sandy hair and he seemed to be a man of the great outdoors. Under prominent brows his eyes were swift-moving and intelligent. His manner was dominant without being domineering. Tweed sensed he was in the presence of a strong personality and he could see why the locals called him 'Squire'.
'I'm forgetting someone/ Gaunt went on. This is my girl friend, Jennie Blade. Say hello, Jennie.'
'Greg, I don't need a prompter,' Jennie drawled. 'Hello, everyone. Who is that peach of a man who just came out?'
It was Philip Cardon, joining Butler and Nield, who had heard voices. Cardon smiled at her as Tweed made introductions. Paula and Jennie eyed each other up and down like two cats warily summing up the opposition. Jennie switched her gaze back to Cardon.
'Life is looking up, Greg – becoming interesting again.'
In her late twenties, Jennie was attractive. Five feet six tall, her riding outfit emphasized her superb figure. Her slim legs were encased in jodhpurs. Golden hair fell in smooth locks to her shoulders. Her face was triangular – a wide forehead, thick gold brows and a good bone structure tapering to a pointed chin below full red lips. Strong competition, Paula admitted to herself.
Bearing in mind the girl's presence, Tweed gave a terse account of the tragedy. He explained that Amberg had invited them down to lunch because he had been a friend of Tweed's. He omitted mentioning that Paula had witnessed the aftermath.
'I don't believe this,' Gaunt rumbled. 'Police trampling all over my property. And why should anyone want to harm Julius, a Swiss banker? I'm going to see for myself.'
'I'll come with you,' said Jennie.
Cardon stopped her. He took her arm as Gaunt marched inside. She looked at him through half-closed eyes.
'Better not,' Cardon advised her.
'I'll be all right if you'll come with me,' she replied, openly flirting with him.
'Glad to be of service,' Cardon agreed, who seemed not averse to accompanying her anywhere.
Tweed slipped in ahead of them. He found Gaunt standing very erect and still in the dining-room. The tablecloth, stained with pools of blood, was still there, to say nothing of the dark brown lakes on the ceiling and carpet.
'My God! Looks as though you were right.'
'I'd hardly make it up,' Tweed responded. 'And Amberg's face had been splashed with acid after being shot dead. He looked like a skull.'
He watched Gaunt's reaction but no emotion showed on the Squire's face. He walked slowly to the head of the table and stood looking down where Amberg had lain over the broken chair.
'Cost me a bloody fortune to clean up this place,' Gaunt rasped. 'And there are holes in the panelling. That will have to be attended to. Damned expensive.'
'Greg is money-conscious,' Jennie said as though she felt it diplomatic to explain Gaunt's apparent mercenary attitude. 'It's understandable. Keeping up a place like this these days is a drain on his purse.'
'Do you mind not discussing my personal affairs with a stranger,' Gaunt rapped at her. He looked at Tweed. 'I return from a day away which I enjoyed and find this. I still can't take it in.'
'How did you spend the day?' Tweed enquired.
'None of your business. You sound like a policeman.'
'Greg? Jennie spoke sharply. 'It was a polite question.' She turned to Tweed. 'He has a small cottage at Five Lanes on the edge of the moor. The arrangement was we'd stay away from here from eight in the morning until now. Amberg holds – held – business meetings here.'
'Do belt up, Jennie,' Gaunt said with less force. 'You know something, Tweed? I don't feel like staying in here. Let's repair to the living-room. Thank God the staff survived. It's hell getting fresh servants.'
'He won't admit it,' Jennie whispered to Tweed as Gaunt marched out, 'but he's in a state of shock. Would you please join us for some tea? If Cook is up to it. I'll go and have a word, maybe give her a hand.'
'I'll come too,' Paula said.
She glanced at Tweed who was gazing out of the window into the distance. The light was fading and night fell over the drive like a menacing shadow. Knowing they were hemmed in by the desolate moor, Paula shivered.
'Where are you people off to when you leave?' enquired Gaunt. They had just devoured a huge tea of sandwiches and home-made fruit cake. They sat in the living-room on: ouches and armchairs. Gaunt faced Tweed and Paula while Cardon sat on a couch next to Jennie. Butler and Nield had chosen chairs facing the windows which they watched constantly – no one had closed the curtains.
'London,' Tweed lied smoothly. 'There shouldn't be a lot of traffic on the roads at this hour.'
'I'd have expected you to stay somewhere down here until the morning,' Gaunt persisted.
No one had mentioned the bomb outrage at Park Crescent to their host. He reached for a box of cigars and, when everyone refused, lit one for himself. It was quite a ritual: trimming the tip off, after rolling it close to his ear, then using a match to ignite it. He took a deep puff and sighed with enjoyment.
'That's better. After today. Tweed, I have been wondering what happened to all the cars Amberg and his guests must have arrived in. Amberg always had a Roller.'
'The police drove them away for further examination.'
'Fat lot of use that will do them.'
'It's surprising what forensic specialists can detect.'
'You really do sound like a policeman.' Gaunt's eyes gleamed as though scoring a bull. 'What do you do for a living?'
'I'm an insurance negotiator.'
'Insurance!' Gaunt jumped up. 'Oh my God! I'll bet my insurance doesn't cover damage caused by mass murder.'
'Depends on how the policy is worded,' Tweed said in a soothing tone.
'Blast it, Greg!' Jennie raged. 'Stop being so obsessed with money. You should be worried about how this terrible experience has affected the staff.'
'It hasn't,' Tweed assured her. 'The police brought a doctor with their team. He examined your staff, said all they'd suffer from were temporary headaches. Celia, the new girl, was tapped only lightly on the head.' He saw Paula watching him, startled by his recent slip of the tongue. He covered it, looking at Gaunt. 'The reason I know about the forensic business is the chief inspector – a man called Buchanan – explained to me why they needed the cars. Incidentally, he said he would need to talk to you.'
'He won't be welcome, I can tell you that.'
'You said,' Jennie began, to ease the tension, addressing Twee
d, 'that this fake postman delivered a parcel which poor Mounce was still clutching when the police examined him. I wonder what it contained?'
'A technician opened the package outside in the garden,' Tweed told her. 'You'll never guess what it contained. A box of Sprungli truffle chocolates.'
'I find that rather beastly,' Jennie commented.
'Sprungli?' repeated Gaunt, who had sat down again. 'A firm in Zurich – where Amberg came from.'
'I don't think Buchanan overlooked that,' Tweed remarked drily. Checking his watch, he stood up. 'I think we really ought to be going. Thank you for your hospitality.'
'It was nothing,' Gaunt said gruffly.
Jennie looked at Cardon. 'I live in Padstow in a rented flat. Here is a card with my phone number. It's a strange port-located on the estuary of the River Camel. Greg and I go there quite often. At this time of the year it's so gloriously quiet and hidden away. If you're down that way do come and see me, won't you?'
Tweed kept a blank expression. Padstow was their real destination.
The door to the hall had been left ajar as though Gaunt was expecting a phone call. The bell began ringing at that moment. Gaunt walked briskly out of the room. He was back again, almost at once, looking rather annoyed.
'It's someone for you, Tweed. Wouldn't give a name. People are so rude these days. No manners at all…'
Tweed closed the door behind him, crossed the hall, picked up the phone. All the staff had gone home – Jennie had explained they arrived early in the morning and cycled home again in the evening.
Tweed here.'
'Hoped I might catch you,' the familiar voice said, deadpan. 'I'm back at the Yard – flew to London from St Mawgan Airport. Exeter has been on the line. I wondered how someone got hold of a postman's outfit. Now we know.' Buchanan paused, waited.
'All right, you want me to ask how. So – how?'
'They stole the uniform of the genuine postman from his cottage at Five Lanes.' He paused. 'They've just found his body, throat slashed open from ear to ear.'
6
Tweed drove the Ford Escort with headlights undipped as he followed the lonely road in pitch darkness across the moor, heading back to the A30. Paula, acting as navigator, sat beside him while Cardon was alone in the back. Behind them Nield, driving the Sierra, had Butler sitting alongside him. He used the red lights of the Escort to warn him of oncoming bends. His own headlights were dipped to avoid a blinding glare in Tweed's rear-view mirror.
'Why are we going to Padstow?' Paula asked.
To go underground until I've identified the enemy.'
'Not like you to run,' she probed.
'A tactical retreat. We may be up against the most powerful and dangerous enemy we've ever confronted.'
'What makes you think that?'
'First, Amberg begs me to join him at Tresillian Manor. With a lot of protection. Maybe we were the targets for the killer as much as he was.'
'And second?'
'Within a short time of the massacre a massive bomb destroys Park Crescent. Diabolical synchronization?'
'Not plausible,' she argued. 'I still maintain that no one could have timed the two events so close together.'
'I suspect the whole plot was triggered off by the arrival of Joel Dyson two days ago from the States. That conjures up a very powerful network with a long reach. Also, how many people knew the location of SIS HQ? The top-flight security services in Europe – and America.'
'You make it frightening,' Paula commented.
'You should be frightened. It must take a vast network to organize all that. Which is why we're spending a day or two in Padstow. Right off the beaten track.'
'So it could be unfortunate,' Cardon suggested, 'that by chance Jennie Blade lives in Padstow.'
'It doesn't help,' Tweed agreed, 'but I've booked rooms at the Metropole – which is in a strategic location. I stopped there overnight with Newman a few years ago.'
'And Philip,' Paula teased Cardon, 'you seem to have fallen for the golden lovely.'
'Fooled you, didn't I?' Cardon chuckled. 'She was pretending to take a fancy to me, that she thinks I'm the best thing since sliced bread. I wondered immediately: "What's this girl really after?"'
'Didn't know you were a cynic about women.'
'Not a cynic,' Cardon told her cheerfully. 'Just a realist. Are you offended?'
'Not in the least. Now I think you've got your feet on the ground. And what on earth is this ahead of us?'
Tweed had slowed. In his headlights red and white cones barred the way with a large notice. It carried the word DIVERSION and an arrow pointing to the right up a narrow lane. It was raining now and between the wipers he had set in motion Tweed saw men in yellow oilskins and peaked caps. A burly individual waved a red lamp and walked towards the driver's side of the car as Tweed stopped, keeping the engine running. In the back Cardon had his Walther in his right hand, inside his windcheater.
'Sorry, buddy,' the burly man with the lamp shouted as he came closer. 'There's been a multiple pile-up on the A30. Go this route and you're back on the highway a short way to the west…'
Accent and language were muffled American, Tweed noted.
Tweed,' Paula whispered, 'I've checked the map and the only turn-off to the right is a dead end. That is, before we reach the A30. The lane he's diverting us to leads close to another tor with a stone quarry close by.'
'Could I see some identification?' Tweed asked through his open window.
'What the bloody hell for?' The man's face turned ugly. He was reaching inside his slicker as he went on. 'You can't get through…
'Don't do it!' Paula warned.
Her Browning automatic was pointed past Tweed at the man outside. He withdrew his hand as though he'd burnt it. He was looking uncertain and then turned to signal to the other men when Tweed reacted.
Ramming his foot down, he shot forward, scattering cones like ninepins. Men jumped out of the way and a missile of some sort landed on the bonnet, burst, spread a light grey-coloured vapour.
Tear-gas!' Tweed snapped.
He closed his window, driving with one hand, maintaining his speed. A glance in his rear-view mirror showed him the Sierra roaring after him. He heard two reports.
Shots had been fired. Nothing hit his vehicle. A quick second glance in the mirror showed him the Sierra rocketing up behind him: no apparent damage.
Thank you, Paula,' Tweed said. 'I was suspicious but you confirmed it. A multiple pile-up? On the A30 in February and at this time of night? And a road crew with an American foreman? The whole set-up was phoney, stank to high heaven.'
'So what had they waiting for us up at that dead end?' Paula mused.
'A dead end – for all of us,' Cardon suggested.
'You have a macabre sense of humour. It doesn't bear contemplating – out in the middle of that moor…'
She started checking her map again. Tweed was driving at speed, lights undipped, swerving round corners. He was anxious to reach the main road.
'What worries me,' he said, 'is how did that gang of thugs know we would be travelling along that road at this hour? Again it suggests a powerful, well-organized network. I get the feeling our every move is being monitored.'
'We're close to the A30,' Paula warned. 'As to how they could know where we were – Buchanan told us your presence down here was reported by all the media. They could have flown down from London to St Mawgan Airport – arranging in advance for hire cars to be waiting. And this is where they stole the equipment from
Tweed had slowed down, paused at the T-junction on to the A30 to look both ways. Yards to the left, road repair equipment was stacked on a verge, flashing lights illuminating cones and other material. Tweed drove out, turned right to the west, his headlights showing a great belt of the road descending a long hill. No other traffic in sight. The rain had stopped but the road surface gleamed in the moonlight.
'You could be right, Paula,' he remarked. There would be time for the opposition to fly
down from London. But these are people who can move like lightning. I still find it puzzling why the anonymous call was made to the media. I'm going to pull in here, have a word with Pete Nield, make sure they're both all right.'
Paula saw a lay-by was coming up. Tweed signalled, pulled off the main road into it. He stopped, still keeping his engine running as the Sierra drew in behind him. It was Butler who got out of the car, used a torch to check the side of his vehicle, then walked up to Tweed who had lowered his window.
'You handled that well, Chief,' he commented. 'Nothing like a reception committee to welcome us to Cornwall.'
'I heard shots,' Tweed replied.
'You did. One bullet went wide. The other ricocheted off the side of the Sierra. I just found the point where it dented the metal. Maybe time we moved on…'
They were driving again through the night along the deserted A30 when Paula made her suggestion.
There are only three people who could have cooperated with the killer who committed the massacre,' she said.
'Gaunt or Jennie Blade,' Tweed anticipated her. 'And we saw two people on High Tor. But who is the third?'
'Celia Yeo, the young red-headed girl who was helping in the kitchen.'
'Why pick on her?'
'Because I ask questions. After the police doctor had examined the staff he remarked that the one who had got off lightest from being coshed was Celia. Said he was surprised she had become unconscious – so slight was the bruise on her head.'
'Not very conclusive,' Tweed objected.
There's more. I talked to Cook when Celia was outside in the scullery. Apparently the girl she recently replaced was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, had both legs broken. Celia turned up at the manor offering her services the following day, which Cook thought was rather odd.'
'Still not sufficient to convince our jovial Chief Inspector, Roy Buchanan,' Tweed persisted.
There's more still. I had a little chat with Celia on the quiet. She's a mulish type, hard as nails, and has avaricious eyes. That girl would do almost anything for money. And she lives in Five Lanes – where the real postman came from. I think I'll drive over there and talk to her again. Her day off is tomorrow. And I saw her sneak back across the grounds with a scarlet tea towel in her hands. She said she'd hung it out to dry – it was still dripping water. She could have hung it from the branch of a tree at the edge of the estate to signal to the killer -signal to him that Amberg had arrived. I don't think she'd known what was going to happen.'