by Colin Forbes
'Then why is she so aggressive?'
'Because she's clever and that attitude makes for a good cover. Sleep well…'
The outer door to the hall, illuminated by bright lamps, closed and locked automatically. Reaching Eve's closed door, Philip paused. Would she think he was trying to move too fast? But it had been her idea. He rapped on the door which was unlocked and opened a few inches almost at once.
'Just saying good night.' Philip told her.
'Good night to you. I'll be up at seven o'clock. You sleep in and we'll meet later.'
The door was closed and he heard her lock it. Inside his own suite he began exploring again. He'd spent only a few minutes inside earlier, opening his case, hanging up jackets and trousers. Jean had always told him to do this. 'Even if you're in a rush, do open your case and take out the things which could get creased…'
At the recollection of this memory his eyes filled with tears. He could hear how she spoke, a rather deep timbre, but her voice was soft and she had always spoken so clearly.
'Get a grip on yourself, you bloody fool,' he said to himself.
He hurried to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and sluiced his eyes and face with water, drying himself vigorously with a towel. He knew what the trouble was. This was the first time since she had died he had come away on his own and stayed by himself in a hotel. Except for his vengeful excursion into Europe, hunting down the men who had killed her.
All thoughts of Eve had gone out of his head. Still feeling alert he prowled round the spacious suite – Tweed had been generous in choosing his accommodation. Entering the suite he walked straight into a large and comfortable living room with French windows looking out on the River Frome. One of the staff had closed the curtains. At the end of the room he turned into a corridor with the bathroom leading off it and the large double bedroom beyond.
He lit a cigarette, prowling from one room to another restlessly. In the living room he pulled back the curtains to look at the river which ran only a few feet beyond. In the moonlight he saw a towpath skirting the far edge.
A large man on a bicycle was riding along the towpath away from Wareham. He was staring across at the Boathouse. A very big man indeed, wearing a windcheater and a deerstalker hat pulled well down over his forehead. Impossible to see his face.
Suddenly the light on his machine was switched off. He had been cruising slowly past but now he increased speed, vanished. Philip's sixth sense came to life. He closed the curtain after checking the door locks. Then he toured the suite, checking all the window locks.
He forced himself to take a quick shower despite a wave of fatigue which unexpectedly came over him. Slipping into pyjamas, he flopped into bed, read a few pages of a paperback, then switched off the bedside light. Why was he oppressed with a sense of imminent doom?
3
Newman also was alert, restless, after he had left Philip. He wandered back through the garden where the lawn was coated with a white frost. The temperature was very low but cold stimulated him.
'I wonder if Tweed is still up.' he mused to himself. 'I'll give him a ring from that phone box Philip described, bring him up to date if I catch him
He entered through the lounge doors, thought of going up to his room, decided his windcheater would protect him enough. The night man behind the counter gave him a key to get back in.
'Feel like a walk. Not sleepy.' Newman remarked and closed the door, locking it as he stood in the cobbled courtyard.
He met them as he walked into the old square. Wareham was a town of Georgian houses, originals. They were cluttered all round the square. A group of six motorcyclists sat astride their machines near the exit from the square into the South Street.
As he appeared they began drinking beer from cans and several lit cigarettes. Why did he get the impression they were putting on an act as soon as he appeared? One, who had his gloves tucked under his arm, was blowing on his cold hands. Several wore their large crash helmets, watched him through huge goggles.
'You won't find any street ladies in this dump,' one of them called out in a sneering tone.
'You never know.' Newman replied amiably and kept walking.
He turned right into the deserted South Street and saw the phone box. Once inside he lifted the receiver, inserted coins, and dialled Park Crescent. Three of the motorcycle gang had wheeled their machines into South Street and stood watching him. After dialling Newman turned with his back to the phone so he could watch the gang. If they started anything he'd crack a few skulls with the barrel of his Smith amp; Wesson . 38. Monica took the call, put him straight on to Tweed. Newman reported tersely, hung up the phone.
He walked back slowly, hands swinging slowly by his side. His very deliberate march seemed to worry them. They backed away to their original position. Newman walked on back to the Priory. A crop of the usual macho types. Then he remembered the motorcyclist Philip had told him had followed Eve and himself back from Kingston.
Tweed put down the phone after listening to Newman. He told Paula and Monica the gist of Newman's conversation. It's going to be an all-night session, Paula had been thinking.
'Well, at least I'm glad Philip at long last appears to have found a woman friend,' she commented.
There could be something significant about Eve Warner's reference to being in security.' Tweed remarked. 'And her reference to it being "special". I just wonder.'
'Wonder what?' Paula probed.
'She could just be Special Branch.' Tweed glanced at the wall clock. 1.30 a.m. 'I think I'll call my old contact in that outfit, Merryweather. Like Philip, he's an owl. Doubt if it will work but it won't if I don't try. Could you get him, Monica? If he's there…'
'What is it, Tweed, at this hour?' Merryweather demanded when Tweed picked up his phone.
'Come off it, Sam.' Tweed chided him. 'You can't work until night has fallen. And you are there behind your desk. I need a favour.'
'You always do. What is it?'
'I'm going to give you a name. If she's employed by you I don't expect you to tell me.' Tweed paused to let that sink in. 'But if she is not on your staff it would be a great help to me to know. Her name is Eve Warner.'
Now it was Merryweather's turn to pause. Tweed waited patiently, winking at Paula. It was a very long pause before the reply came.
'Tweed, if I tried to get the name of someone on your staff – or tried to check that they were not on your staff -would you tell me? Like hell you would.'
'This is serious. I'm working on something which has involved three murders in the past few hours.'
Try Scotland Yard. I can recommend Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan,' Merryweather added wickedly.
'You're a big help.'
'I always try to be. Keep in touch. Good night. Or rather good morning…'
Tweed put the phone down, shook his head.
'He wouldn't cooperate?' Paula enquired.
'There was a very long pause before he stonewalled me. It could be significant. Or he may have been reading a document. He does that, I know, when he's talking on the phone. So we just don't know.'
'Did Bob give you any opinion of this Eve Warner?'
'No, for some reason he was terse, as though he also had something else on his mind.'
'I've completed the profile you asked me a few days ago to draw up on Leopold Brazil,' Monica said brightly. 'It's a bit limited, with big gaps, but he's really a very interesting man.'
That was when the phone rang again.
'It's Chief Inspector Buchanan.' Monica said, masking the phone's mouthpiece. 'He doesn't sound in a particularly good temper. Shall I tell him you've gone home?'
'I'll take the call
'Tweed, I need a direct answer to a direct question.'
Buchanan's normally well-modulated voice had a hard rasp. Tweed settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
'Where are you calling from, Roy? The Yard?'
'No! From police headquarters at Wareham in Dorset.'
'This isn't funny. You know from my earlier call that two people have been brutally murdered at the Sterndale mansion. Did you know he had a living-in servant – chap called Marchat?'
'Could you spell that, please?' Tweed requested.
Buchanan obliged. 'Well, did you?'
'I do now. You've just told me.'
'This Marchat character – sounds foreign to me – has gone missing. His body was not found in the relics of the Sterndale mansion.'
'I expect you'll track him down.'
'I will.' Buchanan replied grimly. 'But not in the middle of the night. Now for the direct question – to which I expect a direct answer.'
'You said that before. You must be tired.' commented Tweed, baiting him. If he could get Buchanan to lose his temper he might let something slip.
'How many men have you got down here already? And why?'
'That's two questions.' Tweed responded mildly.
'Damnit…! Excuse me, I'll start again. I've been checking on hotel registers. At the Priory Hotel I find not only is Philip Cardon registered in a suite – in addition Bob Newman is staying at the same hotel in Room Four. I want to know why.'
'Philip,' Tweed replied smoothly, 'was sent on holiday by me. The first he's had since his wife, Jean, died – in case you've forgotten what happened.'
'You know I haven't.' Buchanan's tone had softened. I liked Jean, a remarkable woman. May I ask why Newman is also at the Priory?'
'Philip was very reluctant to go on his own, but I persuaded him to do just that. After he'd gone I thought it might be a bit traumatic for him, so Newman is there to keep him company.'
Tweed, you should have been a barrister…'
'No, thank you. Lawyers make their money out of other people's misery. Court cases involving bitter domestic disputes, just to name one example.'
'I must warn you that nevertheless I shall have to question both of them during tomorrow. No, today.'
'That's your prerogative. Why don't you snatch a few hours' sleep? It's almost two in the morning.'
'And yet you are still at your desk. I'll be in touch again soon. Good night. Or rather, good morning…'
Tweed put down the phone and sat bolt upright in his chair. He was frowning, staring into space.
'From what I could gather you fended him off brilliantly.' Paula commented.
'When you're talking to a shrewd man from the Yard you stay within the truth as far as you can. I know he didn't believe me, but he couldn't fault me. He must be feeling frustrated, poor chap.'
'Do you – or do you not – wish me to read the profile I've taken days compiling on Leopold Brazil?' asked Monica.
'I'd like to be fresh when I absorb that. Unless there is something in it you think very significant concerning what has happened during the past few hours.'
'One thing is,' Monica replied with satisfaction. 'Brazil owns a large old house in Dorset, at a place called Lyman's Tout, whatever that means. It's called Grenville Grange and looks out from the clifftop over the sea. He's tried to conceal the fact he owns the place.'
'How on earth did you find that out?'
Tweed was suddenly exceptionally alert. He stared at Monica as she replied.
'Well, I've got contacts all over the place, as you know. Some of them are clerks in the offices of your beloved lawyers. They shouldn't gossip, but of course they do. He bought it in the name of Carson Craig. Eventually I contacted your friend, the money tracer, Keith Kent – he was on a short visit to Paris. He told me Brazil has a Carson Craig as a deputy on his staff, that Brazil often uses him as a front.'
'You've done well.'
'I wasn't satisfied with that. I have a friend, Maureen, who lives in a remote village called Kingston up in the Purbecks. We've had lunch several times at a nice old inn called the Scott Arms. She described the location of Grenville Grange. Says the place gives her the willies. She had no idea who owned it.'
Tweed jumped up, walked over to look at the Ordnance Survey map of Dorset Paula had earlier attached to the wall. He traced with his finger the route from Wareham to Kingston, then the narrow road which led to the Sterndale mansion and another track to Lyman's Tout. He walked quickly back to his desk, sat down, drummed his fingers on his desk.
'That does it.' he decided 'At the moment all roads seem to lead to Dorset. Philip and Bob are down there on their own and I sense the situation is pretty explosive. Monica, I'm sending them reinforcements. Call Marler now, then Butler and Nield. They're to start driving -separate cars – down to Wareham before dawn. They must not stay at the Priory…'
'The Black Bear,' Monica said promptly. 'I know Ware-ham and it's in South Street, a five-minute walk from the Priory. Do they know each other when they arrive?'
'Marler keeps away from Butler and Nield – unless they're facing an emergency. All three can stay at the Black Bear Inn. Marler is a sales representative for something plausible. Butler and Nield are taking a holiday – their hobby is bird-watching. That will explain the high-power binoculars they'll be taking…'
Monica was reaching for the phone.
'Wait a minute,' Tweed rapped out. 'All three are to be armed – as is the case with Philip and Newman. And your first call is to Newman at the Priory. You'll probably wake everybody up, but they're used to it. Phrase the message to Newman like this. "The Buchanan Brothers are in town. Suggest an early breakfast for Philip and yourself, then push off somewhere. If the brothers contact you then you're in for a boring day." '
'Got it,' Monica replied, picked up the phone and dialled the Priory from memory.
While she was making her urgent phone calls Paula left her desk, sat in a chair close to Tweed.
'These are very heavy reinforcements you are sending. What triggered off your decision?'
'Monica's news that Brazil owns Grenville Grange, which is in the same area as Sterndale Manor. And I want a dragnet out to find the missing Marchat before Buchanan gets to him. He could be the key to what really happened.'
'You've got something else on your mind too. I can sense it.'
'Something I've only told Philip so far. I phoned Maggie, the General's niece, earlier. I met her at a seminar – very boring. But when she found out I knew General Sterndale she opened up with something that was worrying her. Sterndale kept the bulk of the bank's capital in a safe at the manor. Ran his own show. The capital was in the form of bearer bonds.'
'Which can be turned into cash anywhere in the West- they have no one's name on them. What sort of money are we talking about?'
'Three hundred million, Maggie said.' 'Oh, my God! Sterndale Bank's capital has gone up in flames.'
'If the bonds were still in the safe…'
At Devastoke Cottage on the edge of Stoborough, a hamlet not far south of the River Frome and Wareham, Marchat locked his packed case and looked at his new tenant, who hurried in with three cases. Partridge, a bachelor from nearby Poole, dumped the cases and smiled.
'Phew! That's the lot. Funny time to move in. Three in the morning. But when I got your phone call I just wanted to get here. Love this place.'
'You're satisfied with the agreement we've drawn up ourselves?' Marchat asked anxiously. He looked at the document on the table.
'Well, it didn't take long to make an inventory. Not a lot here, if you don't mind my saying so. Which suits me. How do I get in touch with you?'
'I'll write to you when my aunt confirms I can take over her flat in London. Do keep the place locked up.'
Marchat sounded anxious. It occurred to him Partridge looked very like himself. Strange he had not noticed the close similarity when Partridge had visited the property a few days earlier. Marchat had put an advertisement in a Poole newspaper, saying his cottage was available for renting.
'You said over the phone your aunt was unwell when you called me this evening, that is, yesterday.' Partridge remarked. 'Nothing serious, I hope?'
'No. She fusses. She proba
bly rushed about too much getting ready to leave her flat. I know she'll move out when I have given her a hand with packing. You seem to have a lot of stuff to move.' remarked Marchat.
Partridge had already brought in five suitcases from his car earlier. He smiled, made a dismissive gesture.
'As I told you, I work from home. I've got a PC -personal computer, fax machine, you name it. I'm a financial consultant. I'll start getting everything fixed up in a few days. I want to explore round here. Lovely remote spot.'
'I'd better go then.' Marchat said, checking his watch. He pointed to a row of keys laid out on a table. 'All the security keys are there. Do make sure windows and doors are locked at night – or if you go out.'
'Don't worry.' Partridge assured him. 'I'll keep a close eye on the place.'
He had already decided Marchat was the nervous type. Taking an envelope from his pocket he handed his landlord a fat envelope of banknotes – the deposit and three months' rental in advance.
'You ought to check that.' he suggested.
Marchat had stuffed the envelope in his breast pocket. He shook his head, said he trusted Partridge, picked up his two cases, and hurried out to his old Austin.
He would drive through the night to Heathrow, park the car in 'Long Stay', and be ready to board his flight. He had an open flight ticket in his pocket and had phoned Heathrow to make a firm booking. His destination: Europe.
The early morning flight from Paris was disembarking its passengers at Heathrow. A tall man was the first to leave the plane. He hurried to the car hire counter, produced the requisite papers for the Volvo he had hired over the phone from Paris, paid the necessary money, and within minutes was driving away. His destination: Wareham.
A few minutes later another tall passenger off the same flight approached the same counter, went through the procedure for obtaining the car he had hired by phone from Paris. Once outside the airport he drove at speed, heading south. Destination: Wareham.
4
It was still dark when Philip heard the tapping on his window which overlooked the Boathouse entrance. By nature a zombie when he woke, he had trained himself to wake quickly. Careful not to switch on a light – which would make him a perfect target – he checked the time by the illuminated hands of his wristwatch. 7 a.m.