by Colin Forbes
'It's a free country.' Prendergast answered with a smile.
They sat down together at a side table for four. Seafood was served - generous portions of crab and lobster. Newman wondered how Grenville afforded this lavish fare. The moment the food was demolished Newman invited Vanity to dance, took her on the floor. Maurice suggested to Paula they follow suit.
'Do you mind if we wait a minute? I'd like to digest my enormous helping.'
Which wasn't her real reason. She wanted to watch Newman dancing with Vanity. Her blazing red mane picked her out from all the other couples, and she was a very good dancer. She pulled Newman closer to her as they moved round the floor. She rested her pointed chin on his shoulder, her hair touching his face. He was saying something which caused her to burst into laughter.
'Those two are getting on well together,' Maurice said.
"They certainly seem to be,' Paula agreed.
Glancing round the room, she estimated there were about a hundred people present. A mixture of young and middle-aged. Many had the look of the 'exiles' Newman had mentioned to her in her room. Maurice guided Paula onto the floor as Newman returned with Vanity.
'I'll get you another glass of champagne,' Newman suggested.
'I think I'll wait awhile. Who are you looking at so so closely?' she asked.
'No one in particular.' he lied.
Opposite him, at a table on the far side of the room, Colonel Grenville was staring fixedly at Prendergast. His eyes reminded Newman of twin gun barrels. He was so intent on watching this particular guest that the ash at the end of his cigar toppled down his smart blue suit. He appeared not to notice what had happened.
As they danced, Prendergast cast the occasional glance in his host's direction, then looked away quickly. What the devil was going on? Newman was puzzled. Vanity drew his attention to the band - five youngsters perched on a dais at the end of the room.
'They're quite good,' she commented. 'And they're playing a mixture of the old and the new. I rather think Grenville instructed them to do that - something to please his mix of guests and ages. He's a very good organizer.'
'And amazingly quick,' Newman remarked. 'He must have been phoning up all over the place this afternoon.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because of the late hour when he called me to invite me. I don't think I was an afterthought.'
'Can't imagine you'd be that with anyone - especially a woman.'
Newman was cursing himself inwardly. He had nearly slipped up badly because he'd seen Grenville only that afternoon, a fact he was concealing. The trouble was, he knew, his mind was full of Vanity.
Later Grenville danced a quick-step with both women in turn. Newman noted he was surprisingly agile on his feet, more like a man of forty.
The party went on into the early morning hours. At 3 a.m. Newman suggested they left. Grenville was a little too cordial when he said 'goodbye' to Prendergast, a fact which Newman observed with interest.
They returned to Nansidwell. Prendergast wanted to drive Paula back but she insisted that was ridiculous since Newman could take her in the Merc.
1 would have thought you'd at least let me do that for you.' Prendergast said forcefully.
'Well, I won't.' she told him. 'We've had a lovely time. Don't spoil it.'
'You're the one who's spoiling it.'
Newman had stood nearby, saying nothing. Paula had to work this one out for herself. He was glad he'd escorted Vanity inside his car with the windows closed against the night chill. At least she couldn't hear this conversation, which was on the verge of turning ugly.
"Thank you for a most pleasant evening - or early morning – Maurice.' she said firmly. 'I'm going back now with Bob. Good night.'
She omitted to kiss him on the cheek, walked briskly to the Merc., got inside the back, shut the door.
'Good night, Maurice.' Newman said.
'Have you two got something going between you?'
'Good night, Maurice.' Newman repeated.
He walked swiftly back to the Merc. He had to get away from Maurice before he slammed him one on the jaw. On the way back there was very little conversation. Paula was seething inwardly. Vanity was sleepy after her late night.
Arriving at Nansidwell, Newman found a message from Tweed waiting for him.
Phone me urgently as soon as you return. In the usual way.
He showed the message to Paula as soon as Vanity had gone to bed. She read it, handed it back to him.
'He means call him from the phone box in Mawnan Smith.' she said.
'I can do that myself now. Maybe you'd sooner get off to your room?'
'Like hell. I'm coming with you. I want to know what's going on. And after that absurd conversation with Maurice I'm very alert.'
13
Tweed was away so long after leaving to talk to Weatherby that Monica began to worry. She was relieved when he returned well after midnight. Then she saw the expression on his face. He sat down behind his desk, looking grim.
'Something wrong?' she enquired.
'Something is very wrong. After listening to Weatherby I think my bizarre theory as to what is going on with Moloch was right. It's horrendous.'
'You'd sooner not give me any details?'
'Not at the moment. I have to work out what to do. I suppose there haven't been any developments?'
'Yes, there have. I managed to get hold of our contact in Paris, Loriot. He said he'd phone me back and later he did. It's about Vanity Richmond.'
'Yes?'
'She was reported earlier to have an English father and a French mother. Loriot found out she did indeed have a French mother. Now deceased. Vanity was born in Grenoble. She's thirty-eight. Her father was an attach^ at the British Embassy in Paris. When he was moved back to Britain her French mother came with him, bringing Vanity with her, who was then ten years old.'
'I see.'
"There's something else. Cord Dillon phoned me from Langley. Joel Brand, Moloch's so-called second-in-command, passed through San Francisco International airport. Cord's man at the airport followed him to Black Ridge...'
'So-called? Is that your phrase?'
'No, it's Dillon's. He says it's not clear which of the two men - Moloch or Brand - is running AMBECO.'
'Curious. Very. What is really interesting is that Brand is now back in California. Which again fits in with the theory I've built up as to what is planned.'
For once the phone ran when Tweed wasn't pacing his office. Monica took the call, told Tweed it was Newman on the line.
'Tweed here
He listened while Newman gave him a terse report on the events at the Yacht Club. He mentioned Colonel Grenville's reaction to the arrival of Maurice Prendergast.
"Thank you.' said Tweed. 'Warn everyone to be ready for instant departure from Cornwall. Play it canny. Only partly pack your cases. When I tell you to come back, you come back fast. All of you. Hope you enjoyed the party. What you've told me may be important. Goodbye ...'
He began making notes on a pad in his swift, strong handwriting. It took him a while to complete his list. Then he handed the pad to Monica after tearing off the sheet he'd written on.
'First thing, shred that pad. I don't want Howard snooping round, finding it and tracing the impressions of what I've written.'
His manner was brisk despite the late hour. Everything about him told Monica he had decided what to do. Action was about to erupt.
'And the next thing?' she enquired after shredding the pad.
'Call British Airways at Heathrow. Book open tickets, return, for a flight to San Francisco. Undated,' he emphasized. 'First-class tickets for Paula and me. Club class for Newman, Marler, Butler and Nield. That way they can lose themselves in the crowd. Tell them each passenger is travelling separately.'
'So it's California,' she remarked. 'You've broken the logjam.'
'Pity Philip Cardon wasn't still with us. He'd have come in useful when we do visit California.'
; 'Where is Philip?' she asked. 'Where did he go when he took extended leave?'
'I've no idea where he is now. We may never see him again. He's roaming the world. Like The Wandering Jew. That's a novel written by someone long ago called Jew Suss. I may have got the title a bit wrong - and the name of the author.'
'So he never really settled down?'
'Can you wonder at it? After what he went through?'
The newspapers broke the story that following morning. At his desk Tweed studied a national newspaper, only one of many which carried the story.
Twin Girls Murdered? Have You Seen Them? The headline was splashed across the front page. A story followed about two women who had been dragged out of the sea, dead, six thousand miles and several weeks apart from the discovery of one to the finding of the other. Two large pictures. One of the twin in California. The other of the twin in Cornwall. Another paper carried the headline International Twin Murder? Tweed passed the first newspaper to Monica.
'Buchanan has done a good job. Pulled out all the stops. That's going to rattle VB in his cage, shake the living daylights out of him. The timing couldn't be more perfect.'
'You think Moloch will react?'
'Someone will. Somewhere. I'm hoping we'll get a person who knows who they are coming forward. Here or maybe in California.'
'Why in California?'
'You know I asked you in the middle of the night to collect copies of the newspapers as they came off the presses?'
'I could hardly forget. I was up half the night.'
'At least I packed you off afterwards to get some sleep. I told you not to come in until this afternoon.'
'I can get by on a few hours, as you know. How much shut-eye did you get?'
'None.' admitted Tweed. 'I had a shower here and a change of clothes. After I'd sent copies to Cord Dillon and called him. At my request the RAF had a jet standing by at Heathrow to fly them to the States. I had to get the PM's backing to arrange that.'
'So when do they arrive?' Monica asked.
'Should be there now.' Tweed said, after checking his watch. "They travelled in one of the RAF's superjets.'
'We really are moving. How will Cord get them to the West Coast?'
'By the same superjet. They may already have hit California. One of Cord's men in San Francisco is delivering them anonymously to Moloch's doorstep.'
It was late afternoon in Britain and early in the morning in California when Cord Dillon phoned Tweed.
'We've hit the button.' Dillon opened. 'Your papers arrived OK, have just been delivered to the big man. But more important, the story is splashed all over the LA Times, the San Francisco Chronicle - and the Monterey Herald. Now I'm waiting some guy who knew these chicks to holler that he knew them, who they are.'
'You're moving fast.' Tweed commented. 'How did you manage that?'
'I have contacts.' Dillon replied vaguely. 'We wired the three papers in California with the photo of the woman who came ashore in California and the Identikit you sent of the other one who was washed in on the coast of Cornwall. Someone, somewhere, has to react.'
'I hope so...'
Unknown to both Tweed and Dillon, someone had already reacted. An American, a partner in Standish Investigations, a private detective agency, was staring at the pictures in disbelief and growing horror.
Linda Standish was working on a homicide case under cover. She had obtained a job in a dress shop in Carmel at the princely sum of ten dollars an hour. There were no customers in the shop as she stood and rapidly read the story. She made up her mind immediately. Her boss was not pleased when she told him.
'I'm sorry, but I'm resigning, Leon...'
'Resigning? You've only been here a week. You can't do this to me.'
'My father's on a visit to London.' she lied glibly. 'I had a call just before you came in. He's been taken seriously ill.'
'You didn't tell me your father was going to London.'
'You don't tell me your private affairs.' she snapped.
'Don't expect you're going to get another week's pay.'
'Keep your pay!'
She was out of the shop and inside her parked car before Leon could think of a comeback. From a phone booth she called her father in Santa Barbara, told him only what she had told Leon, warning him to back her up by getting his girl friend to answer all calls, to say he was away in London. She was careful not to upset him by telling him the truth. He didn't take the papers or watch the TV. He had an aversion to any form of news and his girl friend was as dumb as they come.
Next she phoned British Airways, booked a seat on the night flight to London, using her credit card. Then she called her partner in San Francisco, explained the situation.
'Ed, send one of the girls on the staff to try and get the job in that dress shop. Guy's called Leon.'
'You were getting somewhere with the Armstrong homicide?'
'Not a thing so far. I have to fly. Literally ...'
Finally, she called the number at Black Ridge, asked to speak to Mr Moloch. She was put straight through to him.
'Linda here. I have to fly to London. My father's ill. Sounds serious. While I'm there I hope to pick up a clue about your missing girl friends.'
'I'll increase the fee to one hundred thousand dollars,' he replied instantly. 'If you trace them. But you don't reveal any information to anyone. Bring it straight to me. Me alone.'
'You told me that before. I have to rush to catch the plane.'
She then started the two-hour drive to San Francisco, pushing over the speed limit. It was going to be a close thing to catch that flight. All the time, at the back of her mind, she was thinking, One hundred thousand dollars is a load of money.
She caught the flight by the skin of her teeth, settled into her seat in Club Class. An expensive trip. Normally she'd have travelled Coach, or what the Brits called Tourist. But she needed time to think to get over the shock.
She knew she could have contacted the police in California, but they had so much crime on their hands she didn't think they'd give the case the attention she was determined to get. Her first move would be to call New Scotland Yard.
Linda drank the champagne the hostess had served while she checked the newspaper. The guy who appeared to be running the case was a Chief Inspector Buchanan. She'd call him. Frig the jet lag.
The following morning Buchanan called Tweed as he was looking again at the map of California Professor Weatherby had given him.
Tweed, we may have a reaction to the stories in the papers. A Linda Standish has called me. Just said she had information on the missing twins. Wouldn't talk on the phone. Since you started all this would you like to interview her? She's American. I have the feeling you might learn more.'
'Where is this Linda Standish?'
'I'll give you a number. She's staying at some hotel down in Bayswater. Here's the phone number ... And you'll keep me in touch?'
'Closely. But who am I supposed to be?'
'I hope you don't mind, but I gave her your name. I could have asked you first but I sensed she's highly strung, so didn't want to lose her. You're a chief claims investigator, your usual cover. I told her there could be an insurance angle.'
'I'll call her. And thank you ...'
Tweed knew this was Buchanan's way of repaying him for his cooperation. Also, he suspected Buchanan realized that he could at times be intimidating. He called the number and asked Standish if she would meet him at Brown's Hotel. She agreed immediately, said she knew London well.
He arrived at Brown's at eleven o'clock, fifteen minutes early, but the concierge told him Miss Standish was waiting for him in the lounge. Accompanying Tweed, he pointed out the American who sat drinking coffee.
Tweed studied Linda Standish quickly as he walked towards her. She would be about five foot seven, was slim, had straight brown hair and a plain face. Rimless glasses were perched on her long nose and she wore a white blouse, high at the neck and with long sleeves. Her legs were clad in beige tro
users and on her feet she wore white trainers.
'Miss Standish? I am Tweed.'
'Do sit down, Mr Tweed.'
He settled himself into a comfortable chair opposite and close to her. She stared at him and he knew she was assessing him. He waited patiently while she drank the rest of her coffee. She put the cup down and he tried to help her.
'I understand from Chief Inspector Buchanan that you have information about the missing twin ladies.'
"They were my sisters ...'
Tears appeared in her eyes. She turned her head away and produced a handkerchief. Tweed was careful not to look at her. Instead he refilled her cup from the pot.
"Thank you,' she said and blew her nose. Her American accent was the softer type sometimes found in California. 'Sorry to make a fool of myself.'
'It's the jet lag.' he said kindly. 'I gather you have just come off the plane recently. A ten-and-a-half-hour flight can be a strain.'
'You are very kind.' She got a grip on herself. "They were my sisters,' she repeated more firmly. 'Julie was the woman who died in California, Cheryl in Cornwall. They were thirty years old. Unlike me, they were both very attractive.'
She paused. Tweed estimated Linda Standish would be in her mid-thirties. She was twisting the handkerchief between her hands, realized it, stuffed it inside her shoulder bag.
'Do you know when they disappeared?' he asked gently.
'Yes. Several weeks ago. Both of them about the same time. They were working for a very powerful man. Vincent Bernard Moloch.'
'Working for him. In what capacity? I need all the data.'
'I understand. I'm a private investigator. I work from Carmel. My junior partner covers San Francisco. Ed Keller.'
'I appreciate this is very difficult for you.'
Tweed now understood why she had weighed him up at first with her shrewd grey-blue eyes. It was part of her job to assess people quickly. He thought her intelligent. Probably good at her job - she could enter a roomful of people and no one would notice her, a valuable quality in her profession.