The Cauldron

by Colin Forbes

  'Yes. I'll drive my car round to his side of the creek, park it at the Yacht Club. Then if he drives off I can be after him...'

  'We'll also want pictures of him. You can take those, I imagine, from that little boat you use to cross the creek.'

  'That's no problem...'

  'You'll have to spend a lot of hours on this one. That means keeping a watch on his house at night. He might try to slip away well after dark.'

  'I can manage that.'

  Take photographs of Prendergast, Adrian was thinking. He had lost his camera in the creek - or rather that clumsy woman had dropped it in the water. But with the money Brand was going to give him he could buy a cheap one - which would leave plenty over for trips to pubs.

  'You're not drinking.' Brand observed.

  'Down the hatch.'

  As Adrian lifted his glass Brand raised his own, stood up, swallowed the contents. He grinned at Penkastle, went round to where he was sitting, put an arm round his shoulder.

  'Adrian, stand up. I want to show you something from the door. Something which will help you observe Maurice Prendergast.'

  Adrian made a supreme effort. Placing both hands flat on the table, he forced himself upright, turned carefully to follow his guest. Brand lifted his pullover, pulled out a stiletto-like knife, rammed it into Adrian's chest at just the right point, avoiding ribs. He shoved the knife upwards with great force. Adrian opened his mouth, gurgled as Brand, using great strength, managed to haul out the knife. He was helped when Adrian fell backwards, hitting a wooden skirting board with the back of his skull.

  'Good riddance to bad rubbish,' Brand said aloud.

  He wiped the knife clean on the clothes of the dead form lying at his feet, returned it to the concealed sheath. He picked up his own glass, opened the front door, peered out. No one in sight. He put on his gumboots.

  It took him less than a minute to step into the dinghy powered by an outboard, to start the motor. He guided it until he reached the powerboat waiting for him by the bank of the Helford River. Gene, who had loaned him the knife, started up the engine.

  In mid-river Brand threw the whisky glass overboard, then the knife. A powerboat going up the creek would have attracted attention. Now, with the dinghy attached to its stern, the powerboat began speeding back towards the Venetia.

  8

  'Yes, Ethan. Since it is unusual for you to call me I am hoping this is good news.' said Moloch, leaning forward over the desk in his office at Mullion Towers.

  "The operation is well advanced.' Ethan's subdued voice informed him. 'I know it will work. In a matter of weeks or maybe much sooner.'

  'And the explosive test? Xenobium.'

  He said the last word quickly. There was a pause and Moloch gripped the phone more tightly.

  'Successful., More powerful even than we expected.'

  'Good. Thank you for keeping me in touch...' It was this phone call which decided him to return to the States immediately. He contacted Vanity Richmond on her mobile. Then he phoned the Venetia, ordered the pilot to fly the chopper to Mullion Towers to pick him up and take him on to Newquay airport where the jet was waiting. His final call was to the pilot of the jet.

  He had deliberately let no one else know his destination - except for Vanity Richmond. Typically, he wanted to arrive at his main HQ at Black Ridge in California unexpectedly. It was a method he frequently used - partly to keep his movements secret, partly to see what had been going on in his absence. He trusted no one completely.

  In the dining room at Nansidwell Paula had glanced several times at Newman's table. His conversation with Vanity appeared to be going well, but knowing Newman so long Paula detected something guarded about his manner. He's not swallowing all her guff, she thought as she left the room.

  She found Tweed drinking coffee in one of the lounges and signalled to him, then walked out into the courtyard. Tweed finished his coffee, stood up, stretched, left the other guests and wandered out as though he felt like some fresh air.

  'I overheard Vanity Richmond using her mobile phone out here ...' she began.

  Tweed listened as she relayed the gist of what had been said. His expression didn't change as they continued walking up the bush-lined drive out of sight of the hotel and along a side road.

  "This is important news.' he said eventually. 'You did well to catch all that. It could be sinister - the fact that he told Vanity to stay in sight of people all evening. I don't like the implications of that one bit. Also the fact that he's suddenly taking off for the States. Do you fancy a stroll into Mawnan Smith? Good. I think I'd better use the phone box Newman used -1 need to inform Cord Dillon of this development.'

  They turned round, took the road direct into the village. It was a very warm night and Tweed took off his jacket as they quickened their pace.

  'Bob seems to have struck up a friendship with that Vanity woman.' Paula observed.

  'I know. Bob is playing a wily game. She'll be like putty in his hands. He'll get more out of her than she will ever get out of him. He knows she's Moloch's confidante. I did get the chance to tell him while you were having a bath and changing.'

  "Thank Heaven he's clued up.'

  'No woman has ever fooled Bob Newman - at least not for long

  Paula waited outside the box in the village while Tweed made his call via the international operator. He always carried plenty of change for emergencies like this. It would be 5 p.m. in Langley, he calculated, waiting for the call to go through. Dillon's time zone was five hours behind London's.

  'Cord, Tweed here. I've just heard VB is flying back to the States - to California. He may take off tomorrow morning. I suspect something momentous is imminent. I gather it was probably a quick decision.'

  'Got it. OK. I know his transatlantic flights system. He flies to New York, gets the Lear jet refuelled, then flies nonstop to California. I'll have a man waiting at Kennedy in New York, another one at San Francisco International. That way we can track him.'

  'I'm asking Monica to call Jim Corcoran, a friend and Security Chief at Heathrow. He'll be able to tell when VB is leaving Britain. She'll call you.'

  "That would help. Washington is in a growing panic over VB, the power he has built up in the heart of government over here. They can't do anything about it -unless someone can catch him out in a big scam, something horrendously illegal. He has, of course, a whole battery of top attorneys.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Something I forgot to tell you. He has erected a series of dome-shaped buildings on the hills overlooking the Pacific - all the way from south of LA and north via Big Sur. They're supposed to be observatories, the most modern in the world.'

  'Didn't know he was interested in astronomy.' commented Tweed. "They sound like eyesores. It's a wonder they were sanctioned in that beautiful scenic section of the coast.'

  'He's been clever again. Each one is painted a colour to merge it within the surrounding countryside. They all have a view of the ocean.'

  'Very strange. Can't you have them checked?'

  'Me? You're joking. He did invite certain scientists to visit several on different days a while ago. Each had a giant telescope inside it.'

  'I still find the idea of those buildings strange, even sinister.'

  'You've got a reason for saying that?'

  'No. Just a feeling,' Tweed said vaguely. Take care.'

  'You do just that. You're dealing with a man who can get away with just about anything. Maybe even murder. Look at how seven of his girl friends vanished off the face of the planet.'

  'I have a theory about that. No, I -won't burden you with it. Rather too bizarre. Keep in touch...'

  Tweed then phoned Monica, gave her instructions about calling Jim Corcoran. He came out, told Paula on their way back about his conversations. She checked her watch.

  'It's much later than I thought. It was a leisurely dinner and your calls took up more time.'

  'I had to wait until they found Cord.'

  Later, when th
ey wandered down the drive to Nansidwell, Paula went ahead, rushed back to warn Tweed to wait out of sight. She returned to the hotel where two police cars were stationed in the courtyard, their lights flashing as though they'd forgotten to turn them off - or the occupants had been in a hurry.

  She approached the entrance slowly, peered inside, and a woman guest she'd chatted to rushed up to her.

  "There's been a murder. Everyone is excited - some are annoyed at being kept up out of bed ...'

  Paula had glanced over her shoulder. She saw a tall lanky man with a neat moustache in civilian clothes talking to Newman. She froze, got a grip on herself.

  'Who was murdered?' she asked quietly.

  'I don't know ...'

  'Excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air. Had a long drive in the car.'

  She found Tweed calmly waiting at the entrance to the long drive. He knew from her expression that something serious had happened.

  'What is it?'

  "There's been a murder. Don't know who, where. Two police cars outside the entrance. Inside someone you know and will be pleased to see - I don't think - is questioning Bob. Your old sparring partner, Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan. Of all people - this distance from New Scotland Yard ...'

  'You and I have just been for a walk after a large meal - into Mawnan Smith and back. No mention of my phone calls.' Tweed said briskly. 'We'll go in now. If Roy is in sight I'll go straight up to him...'

  Buchanan was still questioning Newman, sitting down now on a couch in the lounge he'd had cleared. The other guests were crammed into the other lounge and looked not best pleased. Extra chairs had been taken in for them and Buchanan's assistant, the wooden-faced Sergeant Warden, was watching over them. Buchanan looked up as Tweed and Paula walked across to him.

  'Long time no see,' Tweed said cheerfully. 'Down here for the sea breezes?'

  'Hardly.' Buchanan's long lean face had a bleak expression. He turned to Newman. "That will be all for now. I may wish to see you later. You may go.'

  'I'm staying right here.' Newman informed him.

  "This is a very serious matter. I wish to talk to Tweed and Miss Grey.'

  'Are you charging me?' Newman demanded.

  'Of course not.'

  "Then I can stay where I want to. Like here.'

  Buchanan sighed. Tweed was bringing two chairs, one for Paula, the other for himself. He placed them close to the two men on the couch, they sat down and Buchanan started speaking in a lowered voice to avoid guests in the other lounge hearing him.

  'Do you know a man called Adrian Penkastle?'

  'Who is he?' Tweed asked.

  'A man who lived on his own in a tiny house at Forth Navas. On the edge of the creek.'

  'What's he done?' Tweed asked.

  'He got himself murdered in his own house early this evening. That's a guesstimate on the part of the doctor who examined the corpse. A pathologist is on his way down from London. We'll know the time of death better when he has carried out the autopsy in Truro.'

  'Tweed, it's no use denying you know him. We have a witness who described a woman who apparently accosted Penkastle on the road on the other side of the creek. The description fits Miss Grey perfectly RIGHT SQUARE BRACKET '

  'I did encounter a portly man at Forth Navas who was drunk.' Paula broke in. 'I tried to talk some sense into him. I was worried he'd topple into the creek. Tweed has never met him.' she went on, talking rapidly. 'I'd never seen him before.'

  'How drunk was he?'

  'He was pretty far gone.'

  'So you did your good deed for the day.' Buchanan remarked ironically.

  "That's enough of that, Roy.' Tweed interjected. 'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Dr Johnson coined that phrase, at least I think it was him. If you want to continue talking to Paula mind your manners.'

  Buchanan flushed at the rebuke. Tweed had provoked him deliberately and he watched the policeman fighting for self-control. Tweed decided to switch the direction the interrogation was taking.

  'Would you be willing to tell us how Adrian Penkastle was murdered?'

  'Professionally.' Buchanan replied after a pause. 'He was stabbed to the heart, probably with some stiletto-like instrument, maybe a knife. He was very drunk at the time. The room smelt of whisky fumes.'

  Newman folded his arms, still sitting next to Buchanan. It was his only reaction to what he was recalling -the thug with the knife at Mullion Towers whose hand he had burned with his cigarette end. His knife had been a stiletto type.

  'Let's go into the dining room, which is empty. We can talk more easily there.' Buchanan suggested.

  He stood up, had a brief word with Sergeant Warden, then led the way into the dining room, choosing a table well away from the windows. They all sat down. Buchanan's manner was more relaxed as he stretched his long legs under the table and crossed them at the ankles. Tweed instantly became even more alert. He knew the detective well.

  'I wish you'd be franker with me, Tweed.' he said amiably.

  'Franker?' Tweed queried.

  'Oh, come on. I checked the hotel register. You're here with Paula and Newman. Somewhere floating around here is Marler. I've had policemen checking the nearby hotels. Harry Butler and Pete Nield are staying at the Meudon down the road. That's a very heavy team force you've assembled, so why are you all in this neck of woods?'

  'On a mission. I can't reveal the details to you - you know we operate in secrecy.'

  'Could it have something to do with the presence of Vincent Bernard Moloch at Mullion Towers?'

  Tweed was inwardly taken aback. So the anxiety about Moloch in London was so great a senior detective had been flown down - when what appeared to be on the surface a random murder had occurred. He countered with his own question.

  'May I ask how you got down to Cornwall so quickly? I gather the murder of this man, Penkastle, took place early in the evening. His body must have been discovered quickly.'

  'It was. A drinking partner of Penkastle's called at his house at a time which must have been soon after the murder was committed. He phoned up police headquarters in Truro, a town the caller knows well.'

  'But why should the murder of a man who, so far as I can gather, and with respect, had little importance in the world, cause someone like you to be sent down here at the double?'

  'Well...' Buchanan paused again, then took the plunge. "The Commissioner ordered me down here.'

  Again, without showing it, Tweed was taken aback. A top-flight man like the Commissioner. That meant he had probably consulted the PM immediately. It was not only in Washington that panic was spreading.

  'You haven't told me how you got here so quickly,' Tweed reminded him.

  'Police car with sirens screaming to Heathrow. A plane laid on to fly me to Newquay airport. Another police car waiting there to bring me here - that is, first to the scene of the crime while the Yard had a team of men phoning up to check hotel registers. They hit Nansidwell and I find you and your lot here.'

  'So what is the connection between the murdered Penkastle and this Moloch - if there is one?'

  'We don't know - yet. What I'm going to say is confidential.' He looked round the table and smiled without humour. 'I believe I can trust the discretion of everyone here.'

  'We can't have our hands tied in our present mission in any way.' Tweed warned. 'So we cannot regard whatever you propose saying as confidential.'

  'I see.' It was Buchanan's turn to be taken aback. He said nothing for almost a minute, then shrugged. 'What I can tell you is we know certain people residing in this part of Cornwall form part of an intelligence service for Moloch. I can't under the circumstances give your names - but that is why a murder committed in this area interests us.'

  It was then that Tweed caught on. The so-called drinking partner of Penkastle's, who had found the body, was Maurice Prendergast. This explained the news reaching London so swiftly. Prendergast would immediately have informed his superiors at Special Branch. They had passed on the news to the Co
mmissioner. Typically, Special Branch had wanted to stay in the background.

  I wonder if it was Maurice who reported Paula's presence in the area, Tweed thought. I'll ask him point-blank as soon as I can see him again.

  'If you'll excuse us.' he said aloud, 'I think we would all like to get to bed.'

  'As you wish, but I may want to ask Miss Grey a few more questions at a later date. On her own.'

  'Certainly not.' snapped Tweed. 'If you attempt a ploy like that I'll be in touch with the PM in minutes.'

  'She was at the scene of the crime ...'

  'She damned well was not.' Paula burst out. 'She merely encountered a drunken man and tried to save him from drowning in the creek.'

  'I won't put up with false accusations of that sort.' Tweed rapped back.

  'Perhaps you misunderstood what I said ...' Buchanan began.

  Tweed was already on his feet, in a pretended rage. He gestured to the others.

  'We've had enough of this. We're going to get some sleep. Good night...'

  Paula and Newman followed Tweed out of the dining room. Outside, in the small deserted hallway by a compact bar, Newman took Tweed by the arm, led him halfway up the staircase, checked to see they were alone.

  'If you agree, I propose to go back and give Buchanan Joel Brand's name discreetly.'

  'Good idea. That will stir up more trouble for VB ...'

  Newman returned to the dining room to find Buchanan still sitting at the table by himself. He had a

  brooding look, as though trying to solve something which bothered him. He looked up, greeted Newman amiably.

  'Back again, Bob. Would you please tell Tweed I apologize to Paula Grey for what I said? I've been up twenty-four hours nonstop.'

  'I will do that.' Newman leaned on the table opposite the detective, lowered his voice. 'We can give you one name you ought to investigate. Joel Brand. He's probably aboard the Venetia standing out there off Falmouth harbour.'

  'What about him?'

  'I'm just giving you a name...'

  Newman left the room, letting Buchanan digest the name.