by Colin Forbes
As he slipped out of bed his right hand grasped the Walther P38 from under his pillow. He pushed the safety lever upwards. He had loaded the weapon the night before. The tapping was repeated more urgently.
He approached the window, stood to one side, his weapon ready, slid back one of the curtains. Outside, illuminated by the lamp over the outer door, Newman stood, holding up a sheet of paper with a message in block letters. The sheet was pressed against the window.
Get up now. See you at b.'fast in fifteen minutes. We must be away from here for the day. Show a leg. Order from T.
Philip switched on his bedside light, went back to the window, nodded agreement. Newman disappeared.
Taking only a few minutes to wash and get dressed, wearing his hip holster with the automatic nestled inside, Philip opened the door from the suite, closed and locked it quietly. He looked across at Eve's door, left the Boathouse, and hurried to the breakfast room which he found on the ground floor.
'Buchanan is likely to call on us,' Newman explained as the waitress disappeared with Philip's order. 'Tweed wants us to avoid meeting him as long as we can. The bad news is that Buchanan arrived in Wareham last night.'
'He won't be a fun person.' Philip remarked after the waitress had brought rolls, marmalade, butter, a pot of coffee, and a jug of cold milk. 'Anyway, what's the programme?'
'We get out of here pretty damned fast. Then we drive round in the country in my car to waste time. We get back into Wareham just after ten.'
'What's the significance of ten o'clock in the morning?'
'The pubs round here open at ten. We'll try the Black Bear in South Street first. Barmen listen to gossip and know just about everything that goes on locally. I want to find out something about this weird character Marchat…'
They drove round slowly in Newman's Mercedes 280E, a big car he was very fond of. The roads into the Purbecks were quiet in February. Philip kept a lookout for the Porsche Eve drove but saw no sign of it. Overhead dark brooding clouds threatened more rain. They returned to Wareham just after ten.
Newman avoided parking his car in front of the Priory wall where he had left it overnight. Instead, crossing the bridge over the Frome back into Wareham, he turned a sharp right. Philip looked round as they entered a small square closed in with Georgian houses. On the fourth side was the river front and the water was high, almost lapping the square.
'We're tucked away here from Buchanan.' Newman said as he put money into a meter. 'Now for the Black Bear…'
Philip saw you couldn't miss the hotel. Above a square porch was perched a large black bear, reared up, made of metal and painted a grim black. The entrance was a long narrow corridor with the opening to the bar on the right. The corridor continued under a glass roof. Marler stood leaning against a wall as he lit a king-size. He took no notice of Philip and Newman as they entered the bar which had no customers until they walked in.
'Two glasses of French dry white wine.' Philip ordered, and left it to Newman to ask the questions. The barman was a genial type who greeted them pleasantly.
'Just visiting?' he enquired.
'We're looking for a place in the country for my sister.' Newman said. 'A bit early for customers? By the way, I wonder if you could help me? A friend of mine lives in the area. Chap called Marchat. I'd better spell it…'
'No need.' The barman studied Newman before replying. 'You obviously haven't heard. Your friend often comes in here for a noggin one evening a week. He worked for General Sterndale, who lived out in the wilds below Lyman's Tout. Sterndale Mansion went up in flames last night. Horrible tragedy. The General and his son, Richard, were burnt to death. The rumour is it was deliberate. Arson.'
'Sounds awful,' Newman agreed. 'Not what you expect in peaceful Dorset.'
'No, it isn't.'
'What about Marchat?' Newman asked. 'I hope he wasn't there when that happened.'
'He wasn't. He was in here. His evening off. Drinking his usual noggin. We heard the police cars and ambulances screaming their sirens as they went past here. Later, a constable who had come off duty told us what it was all about. We were shocked, I can tell you.'
'Was Marchat here when the constable came in?'
'Yes, he was. He left very quickly without saying a word. In shock, I suppose.'
'Marchat lived in at the mansion, then?' Newman asked.
'Five days a week. He had the weekends off. A friend, you said?'
'Yes.'
'Then you'll probably find him at his cottage outside Stoborough. Know where that is?'
'We drove through it this morning.'
'Difficult place to find. I'll draw a map…'
Newman had just pocketed the map when a very large man clumped into the bar. His hair was thick and black, he had wide shoulders and large hands. His aggressive jaw was smeared with a dark stubble. He wore a shabby windcheater and denims. Philip was reminded of the large man riding a bicycle along the towpath the previous night.
'A pint of mild and bitter. Make it quick. I can't 'ang around here all day. Give me space at the bar,' he snapped at Newman.
'There is plenty of space.'
'Sassy, are we?' The newcomer glared. 'You look familiar. You look just like that newspaper peeper, Robert Newman.'
'Maybe because I am.'
'I'm Craig. People keep out of my way.' He rested his elbow on the bar close to Newman. 'I said people who know me keep out of my way. 'Eard me, did you? Or are you bleedin' deaf?'
The barman had placed the drink Craig had ordered on the counter in a tankard. Craig shifted his elbow, knocked it over. Philip heard the vroom-vroom of motorcyclists arriving. Three of them entered the bar and he thought of the experience Newman had told him about when he'd gone out to find a phone the previous evening. He turned to face them as Craig faced Newman.
'You just knocked me pint over. Order me another.'
'Knocked it over yourself,' Newman replied mildly.
'You asked for it…'
Craig clenched a huge fist to slam into Newman. The foreign correspondent's hands moved in a blur. Then he was gripping both Craig's arms at a certain point where nerve endings were located. Craig froze, gulped with pain as Newman pirouetted him round, forced him back against the wall, released one hand, grasped the head of his opponent, slammed it against the wall.
'Now grow up. Otherwise you might get hurt. In fact I think it might be wiser if you cleared out. Like now!'
During the confrontation Philip had stood between the two men and the three motorcyclists who showed signs of taking Newman from the rear.
'Have you come in for a drink or a barrel-load of trouble?'
'Let's make mincemeat of the boy,' one of them suggested.
'I wouldn't cause any trouble if I were you,' a voice drawled behind the three youths.
As they swung round Marler stood in the doorway.
He was holding a Beretta, a small automatic just over four-and-a-half inches long in his right hand. He kept tossing it a foot or so in the air and then catching it. Each time he caught it he held it for a moment so it was aimed at a different man point-blank.
'It's really a toy, in my opinion, but it's loaded with real bullets. And I have a certificate to carry this neat little weapon. Why don't you all shove off back to your silly machines and take off?'
It was the silky tone in which he spoke as much as the gun which scared them. Marler stood aside as they walked out, leaving Craig to cope by himself.
'Sue you for GBH,' Craig mumbled.
When Newman had thrown him back his skull had hammered against the wall. He was dazed, but his look was venomous.
'I won't forget this,' he mumbled again.
'I agree,' Newman responded. 'Take you a few days before your head stops hurting. Forget your pint.'
'Screw… you.'
Craig walked unsteadily out of the bar and into the street. The barman waited until he had left the hotel before he commented.
'I don't want any more visits from him
and he didn't pay for his beer.'
'He's been in here before?' Newman asked.
'A couple of times over the last week. And he asked me the same question you did. Had I heard of a man called Marchat, and if so where did he live.'
'What did you tell him?' Philip enquired.
'Nothing. Said I'd never heard the name, so how could I know where the chap lived. I never said a word about Marchat's place, Devastoke Cottage.'
Marler had disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared by the time they finished their drinks, thanked the barman, and went over to where Newman had parked his Mercedes. Philip looked up and down South Street, which was almost deserted except for the odd woman carrying a shopping bag. No sign of the motorcyclists he had heard leaving near the end of the fracas.
'Where to now?' Philip asked as he glanced round the small square close to the bridge and the river.
'Don't say anything or stare when you look in the back of the car,' warned Newman, who had automatically checked the rear as he stepped into the vehicle. 'And we're going to find this Devastoke Cottage where Marchat lives. Time we had a word with him, to find out what he knows about the fire at Sterndale Manor.'
Philip glanced back quickly as he climbed into the front passenger seat. Coiled up in the back on the floor was Marler. He was holding a canvas sheath and Philip guessed that resting inside it was Marler's favourite long-distance weapon, an Armalite rifle.
Stoborough was little more than a hamlet with a few houses and a tavern. Glancing down at the map the barman had drawn Newman turned along a country lane, hedge-lined and with open fields under water on either side.
'You know who Bully Boy was?' Marler called out from behind them.
'Chap called Craig.'
'They call him "Crowbar" Craig. His real Christian name is Carson.'
'Why Crowbar, then?' Philip enquired.
'You're going to like what Bob did to him when I tell you. When friend Craig wants information from someone and they don't cough up he uses a crowbar to smash their kneecaps. A real charmer.'
'How do you know this?'
'Archie, an informant I met over lunch at an out-of-the-way bar, told me. He said if he ever saw Craig coming he'd run like hell. The intriguing thing is he's deputy to a rich man called Leopold Brazil.'
'A thug like that?' Philip's tone expressed disbelief. 'Brazil is a man who mixes in top society.'
'I thought his Cockney way of speaking was phoney,' Newman commented. 'What makes you so sure he was this Crowbar Craig?'
'Archie gave me a good description of him to put me on my guard. He's good at descriptions, is Archie. What he gave me fitted Bully Boy perfectly.'
'Slow down!' Philip called out. 'You just passed the place. There's a signboard stuck in the hedge.'
Newman glanced in his rear-view mirror, backed the car, saw why he hadn't noticed Devastoke Cottage. It was set well back from the road behind a thorny hedge. The cottage was small with a thatched roof and a single dormer on the first floor peering out between the thatch, which was a greenish colour.
Marler came with them as Newman opened a small wooden gate, which creaked. Not much sign of maintenance, Newman thought as he led the way up the path dense with weeds, noted the colour of the thatch. He was bothered – all the curtains were closed.
'I wonder what we shall find here,' he said, half to himself.
He had to press the bell four times before the ancient heavy wooden door was opened. A man stood framed in the entrance, small with a plump face, clean-shaven with a smooth skin. His brown hair was all over the place and he wore a dressing gown over pyjamas.
'Sorry to get you up,' Newman opened. 'I believe you are Mr Marchat.'
'No. I'm Partridge. Mr Marchat has rented Devastoke Cottage to me. I arrived early this morning and I was short of sleep.'
'Could we have a word with you about Mr Marchat? I apologize again for the inconvenience but it's very urgent.'
'All three of you?' Partridge asked nervously.
'This may reassure you.' Newman produced the Special Branch pass skilfully forged by the boffins in the basement at Park Crescent.
'Special Branch. I've never met anyone from your outfit. Please come in. Sorry about the mess. Let's go into the sitting room. I'll open the curtains…'
He ushered them into a small room on the right overlooking the front garden and the road beyond. When he had pulled back the curtains he invited them to take seats. The room was furnished with chintz armchairs, which matched the curtains. Newman and Philip sat down while Partridge occupied another armchair. Marler, as was his habit, leaned against a wall by the windows. He took out a king-size, put it between his lips, then paused.
'You may smoke,' Partridge assured him. 'Please do. I think I'll have one myself.' he went on, producing a packet from one of his dressing-gown pockets. 'How can I help you, gentlemen?'
'We expected to find Mr Marchat in residence,' Newman explained. 'Could you tell us where he is?'
Despite obvious lack of sleep, Partridge, a man Newman estimated to be in his forties, explained tersely the whole series of events which had brought him to Devastoke Cottage.
'The extraordinary thing is.' he concluded, 'we look very like each other. I was quite startled when I first met him.'
'You think he selected you as a tenant for that reason?' Newman probed.
'Oh, no. We practically agreed I would take this place over the first phone call when I answered his ad in the local paper. Subject, of course, to my liking the place.'
'How long ago is it since you first spoke to him?'
'About a week. No more. Has he done anything wrong?'
'Nothing like that,' Newman assured him. 'He may just be able to help us with our enquiries. He gave you the address of this aunt in London whose flat he was taking over?'
'No, he didn't. He said he would phone me all details as soon as he knew she would definitely be moving. He had no doubt about that.'
'I hope you won't mind my asking this,' Newman said at his most tactful, 'but could you give me proof of your identity?'
'Not at all. You did expect to find Mr Marchat here. So would my driving licence do?'
'That would cover everything.'
While they waited for Partridge to come back Marler, who was still standing to one side of the window, suddenly stepped back against the wall and peered out from behind the folded curtain.
A grey Volvo was cruising very slowly past the cottage from the direction of Stoborough. The windows were misted up but the driver had earlier rubbed a hole in the blurred surface. Marler had a fleeting impression of a tall man behind the wheel. Newman's Mercedes was parked on the grass verge outside the hedge. The Volvo speeded up once it was past the cottage.
'Something wrong?' asked Philip.
Marler had no time to reply as Partridge returned, handed a driving licence to Newman. Glancing at it he saw it was made out in the name Simon Partridge. He handed it back as he stood up.
'Thank you, Mr Partridge. Again, very sorry to disturb your beauty sleep.'
'That's all right.' Partridge glanced at a couch pushed against a wall. 'Think I'll lie down there and leave the curtains open. Otherwise I'll sleep until Heaven knows when. And there's so much to unpack…'
'Strange.' Newman remarked as they walked back down the footpath, 'that Marchat should push off so quickly after the tragedy at Sterndale Mansion.'
'He did start trying to let the place a week ago,' Marler reminded him. 'Seemed a harmless enough cove, that chap Partridge.'
'Funny that business about his likeness to Marchat,' Philip commented.
'Oh, they say we all have a double somewhere,' Newman replied.
The weather had changed while they were inside Devastoke Cottage. The windows on Newman's car had misted up and he began cleaning them with a wash leather. He set the wipers going to clear the windscreen, squeezed out the leather, and dried his hands on another cloth.
'We'd better get back to Wareham. We'll ha
ve to face the music sooner or later, the music with a nasty rasp played by Chief Inspector Buchanan. We'll forget we paid a visit to Partridge. Marler, I suggest you keep out of the way, slip back to the Black Bear Inn. No point in letting our favourite policeman know how many of us are down here. That really would rouse his suspicions…'
Marler again coiled himself up on the floor in the rear after retrieving the Armalite he'd hidden under a travel rug. As they headed back for Wareham Philip was thinking about their colleague tucked up in the back. Marler had stood with a faraway look while Newman had cleaned the windows, as though he had something on his mind.
They had passed through Stoborough and were close to the bridge over the Frome when Marler called out.
'Bob, turn back now, please. Drive back to Devastoke Cottage.'
'What the hell for?'
Trust me. Just do it.'
'Oh, all right. You might give me a reason.' he growled as he executed a three-point turn on the straight stretch of road, which was deserted.
'A Volvo cruised slowly past the cottage while we were inside. I didn't like the look of it. The more I think about it I still don't like the look of it.'
'I noticed that car,' Philip recalled. 'It crawled past while Partridge was fetching his driving licence. I thought the driver could be a woman.'
'Hard to tell. It – he or she – was little more than a silhouette,' Marler responded. 'And why are we crawling?'
'Because,' Newman explained as though speaking to a child, 'there's a farm tractor ahead of us with a car behind it. And there's traffic in the opposite direction. I can't overtake. Contain your impatience, we'll soon reach the turn-off lane.'
'And the tractor will go down there,' Marler snapped.
An air of tension was rising inside the car. Newman also was beginning to get worried. He'd had experience of Marler's intuitions and too often they had proved to be well founded. The tractor and the car ahead continued straight on towards Corfe and he turned down the lane where there was no traffic. He accelerated.