The Cauldron

by Colin Forbes

  'This is America.' Newman reminded him. 'Image is everything.'

  "Then I think we all should get some sleep.' Tweed announced, heading for the door. Tomorrow we move into enemy territory.'

  19

  During the night Alvarez had summoned certain expert technicians. With Newman's earlier consent they had worked all night on the Mercedes and the BMW in a sealed-off underground garage. By midmorning the two cars and their occupants were close to Monterey.

  Earlier, as they drove along the coast road south from San Francisco, Tweed realized he had forgotten how scenic the journey was. To their right, on a brilliantly sunny morning, a calm Pacific sparkled like mercury, reflecting the sunlight. They passed deserted beaches and small capes.

  To their left rose a shallow slope with only here and there a wooden cabin which was someone's home. Apart from these occasional buildings there were no signs of habitation. In a lay-by Newman demonstrated the technical work added to the Merc, at Alvarez's suggestion.

  Tweed stood with Paula while Newman pressed buttons in a neat black box attached to the dashboard. Two large aerials emerged from the roof, then splayed out at their summits a neat spider's web of wires. He pressed another button and a small cylinder appeared from a squat box on the roof. They had just got back in the car when a raucous horn began to shriek, on-off-on-off. It resembled a police car siren. Paula clapped her hands to her ears and Newman switched it off.

  'What's all that about?' asked Tweed.

  'Yes, what's going on?' Paula called out from the back seat.

  She sat next to Marler, who had assembled his Armal-ite and laid it on the floor with the sniperscope attached.

  They were driving along the freeway again as Newman explained.

  'See the microphone hidden under the dashboard? With that I can communicate not only with Alvarez - but the same message goes straight through to Cord Dillon at Langley. It's one of the most powerful transmitters in the world - through that aerial which I withdrew after elevating it. The siren is psychological, liable to attract any police car within miles. Incidentally, any request for help I send is sent out over another waveband - the one used by police cars.'

  'Alvarez is taking no chances.' Tweed observed. 'I hadn't noticed any of this equipment on the roof.'

  'You weren't supposed to.'

  'I see Butler and Nield are keeping close behind us.' remarked Tweed after a glance in the wing mirror.

  'That's the idea. And now we are approaching a large •town.'

  'It's Monterey. I remember the route to Junipero in Carmel. Follow my directions from now on...'

  Newman, knowing Tweed had a photographic memory for locations, did exactly as he was told. They passed through long stretches of pine forest, bypassing most of Monterey, then entered Carmel. Tweed gave another instruction.

  'Carmel, like so many American towns, is built on the grid system.' he remarked. 'Avenues run down to the sea, streets cross them at right angles. We're on Junipero. Park where you can.'

  He took out Alvarez's map to check further. Getting out of the car, he was followed by Paula who asked if she could come with him to the Standish apartment.

  'Yes. You might be useful. A woman can tell a lot about another woman's living quarters.'

  "This is an interesting town.' she said. 'What a lot of art and curio shops.'

  "The place lives off them.'

  Tweed soon found the entrance to the small courtyard where Linda Standish had lived. It was hidden away, a narrow entrance leading to a wider cobbled yard surrounded by two-storey buildings. Built mostly of wood, they looked old and each one was in a different architectural style. Paula detected Spanish influence in the railed balconies on the first floors. Hanging baskets of flowers were everywhere.

  They were early but a stocky man in a pale lightweight suit came forward to meet them. He had a cleanshaven face, his hair was trimmed short and he looked to be in his thirties. He had a stern expression.

  'Who are you?' he demanded.

  'I might ask you the same question,' Tweed responded sharply.

  'Detective Jeff Anderson.'

  'Hello, I'm Tweed. Do you mind if my assistant, Paula, comes with me to the Standish apartment?'

  'Not at all.' Anderson cast an admiring glance at Paula without a trace of forwardness. 'Can I see some identification?' he asked.

  Tweed produced his passport. Anderson examined it carefully, then returned it. His manner mellowed.

  'Welcome to Carmel. Although this is not a pleasant introduction.'

  'I've been here before. Can we see Linda Standish's apartment?'

  "This way...'

  Anderson led them across to a corner of the courtyard. He was climbing a staircase with wrought-iron railings when Paula called up to him.

  'Excuse me. But is this courtyard well illuminated at night?'

  'No. Just by those lanterns you see.'

  They had ducked under a tape barring off the staircase and a uniformed policeman stood at the entrance to an alley where he could watch. His gun butt protruded from a leather holster. Anderson opened the studded wooden door with a key, led them inside.

  The apartment consisted of one large room with a desk and a chair. There were bloodstains on the chair and on the floor behind it. Anderson pointed to the chair, to papers scattered across the table, also showing signs of dried bloodstains.

  'We reckon she was working on her IRS returns when she was garrotted from behind.'

  'Was the door open?' asked Tweed.

  'Yes it was.'

  'And you think she was sitting in the chair when the murder took place?'

  'She sure was.'

  'Then that suggests she knew her killer. Otherwise she'd have stood up if a stranger had entered. She was a private investigator - had she a weapon?'

  'Yes. A Colt, loaded, in that drawer to her right.'

  'Again it suggests someone she knew, someone she had no reason to fear when the visitor entered. Look at the distance from the door to her desk. And I noticed the door has a loud squeak when you opened it. She had plenty of time to get the gun out - unless she knew her killer and had no reason to fear him.'

  'Or her?' Paula suggested.

  Anderson stared at Tweed. He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels.

  'Who are you? They said you were insurance. You talk like a policeman - the shrewd questions you asked.'

  'He was once the youngest superintendent in Homicide at Scotland Yard,' Paula said quietly.

  "That explains it. Now, to get back to business. As you see, all the drawers have been pulled out and emptied on the floor. Except for the drawer with the gun. I guess that he decided to leave that alone.'

  'Or she did.' Paula insisted.

  'We're talking about a serial killer called The Accountant,' Anderson said bluntly.

  'I know we are,' Paula snapped back. 'And in Europe there have been several cases of professional women assassins operating successfully. You think America is some special place?'

  'I suppose you could be right,' Anderson said doubtfully.

  "This place is a wreck,' Tweed observed. 'Obviously the killer was searching frantically for something, maybe for some clue which pointed in his - or her - direction.'

  'We thought that. Every piece of paper has been examined. I guess he found what he was looking for.'

  'I wonder,' Paula said.

  She looked round carefully. Where would a woman hide something she didn't want found? she was thinking. Where would I have hidden it? There was something in her manner which made Anderson keep quiet as he watched her. She stood in the same spot, slowly gazing at every item of furniture.

  Then she walked forward to a very tall filing cabinet where the drawers had been burst open. Going up on tiptoe, she felt with her hands along the dusty top of the cabinet. Her fingers contacted a folder. She eased it forward, lifted it down, opened it. There was a sheet of paper inside with names listed in neat handwriting. It was headed Suspects.

&nbs
p; After glancing at it, she handed the sheet to Tweed. Anderson peered over his shoulder at the names.

  Vincent Bernard Moloch. Joel Brand. Luis Martinez. Byron Landis. Vanity Richmond.

  'You men didn't find this,' Tweed said, handing the sheet to Anderson.

  'No, they damned well didn't.' He looked at Paula. 'Sorry if I was a bit rough with you.'

  "Think nothing of it.'

  'I'm pretty sure the killer is on that list.' Tweed observed. 'I gathered from Linda Standish in London that she'd been on the case for a while.'

  He stopped speaking as the uniformed policeman from the alley came into the room. He spoke respectfully to Anderson.

  'Sorry to interrupt you, but there's a guy who tried to get under the tape and come up the staircase. He's waiting in the courtyard. Wouldn't give me a name.'

  'Send him up - after you've checked him for weapons.'

  A minute later a bald man with steel-rimmed glasses entered the room. He stared at the three people who were looking back at him.

  'I'm Byron Landis..'.' he said. 'What the hell goes on here?'

  'Please sit down, Mr Landis.' Anderson said with exaggerated politeness. 'I'm Detective Anderson.'

  'Detective? Where is Ms Standish?' he asked as he sat down.

  'In the morgue.' Anderson threw at him.

  Watching him, Paula saw no change of expression on Landis's face at the news. But that could be put down to shock.

  'What do you mean?' he said eventually.

  'I mean.' Anderson said, leaning over him, 'that someone came to her office in the evening and damned near sliced her head off with a garrotte. You knew her?'

  'Slightly.'

  'So slightly you called on her now? She was your girl friend.' he hammered away, making it a statement.

  'She was not.' Landis protested, his manner tougher now. "That's an outrageous suggestion. I resent it.'

  'He resents it,' Anderson sneered, addressing Tweed. 'So maybe I ought to apologize to him.' He put his face close to Landis's. 'And yet you were both seen two nights ago at a nearby discotheque. We have witnesses. You're lying.'

  'I was at a disco.' Landis admitted, 'two nights ago. But I was not with Linda ...'

  'So, it's Linda now, is it? On intimate terms with Linda, were we?'

  'I've just told you I wasn't.' snapped Landis, who had now recovered his poise. 'And I'd appreciate your moving your face away from mine...'

  'It will be a pleasure. You've got bad breath. Oh, by the way, where were you two days ago? In the early evening?'

  'Doing my job at Black Ridge.'

  At the mention of Black Ridge, Anderson's attitude changed. He became quieter, stood well away from Landis, staring down at him.

  'Have you some identification?'

  'Driving licence.'

  Landis slapped it down on the desk. He saw the red stains. His manner had become aggressive.

  'What are those red marks?'

  'Bloodstains.'

  Landis hastily removed his licence, which was resting on one of them, and placed it on a part of the desk without any stains. Anderson examined it, handed it back.

  'I may want to interview you again, Mr Landis.'

  'You know where to find me.' He looked at Tweed

  and Paula as he stood up. 'I don't know who you are but you saw what I was put through. I'm leaving now. Anderson, you said your name was.' he ended, looking at the detective before leaving.

  When they were alone Paula stared round again at the cheap furnishings. She supposed private investigators didn't have the money to make the room more comfortable.

  'What a place to die in,' she said. 'And so horribly. The poor woman.'

  'It happens.' Anderson was all business. 'Mr Tweed, normally I'd have had an assistant to witness what was said. I hope you're not thinking of leaving the States for a while - I might need both of you for back-up. Where are you staying?'

  'The Spanish Bay Hotel,' Tweed answered promptly. 'Give me your particulars in case I want to get in touch with you.'

  He took the card Anderson produced from his wallet, slipped it inside his own.

  'We have to go now,' he said firmly. 'Another appointment.'

  Saying which, he departed with Paula. They were approaching the car when Paula made her remarks.

  'Anderson never thanked me for finding that list, which could be vital in his investigation. And did you notice how Byron Landis walks? He has a duck-waddle.'

  'Yes, I did notice ...' Tweed seemed sunk in thought. Then he stopped. Paula glanced at him, saw a certain expression on his face.

  'What's the matter?' she asked as Newman got out of the nearby Merc.

  'Quack. Quack. Those were the words the Standish sister who was dragged from the sea in Cornwall used. I know now what she meant. I was right, Heaven help us. A cauldron of monstrous magnitude is about to explode.

  We must hurry and interview Mrs Benyon. She might be able to tell us something...'

  With the BMW behind them, Newman drove beyond Carmel along the most magnificent coastal road in the world. Highway One followed the very brink of the Pacific, perched about a hundred or two feet above it. Paula gazed, fascinated by the serene ocean on their right, the high near mountain-like hills climbing steeply to her left.

  As they proceeded south the highway swung round curving bends, some of them right-angled, some with steel barriers to protect motorists from going over the edge, some without any barriers at all. Newman estimated they were now about five hundred feet above the ocean. Some drop if they went over.

  'This is spectacular.' Paula enthused. 'I've never seen anything like it.'

  'I remember it from a visit a few years ago,' said Tweed. 'I agree it's unique. And we have it all to ourselves.'

  Which was true. To Paula's surprise they had encountered hardly any other traffic in either direction. Ahead and below them a series of deserted coves with beaches were tucked under the cliffs. No sign of anyone.

  She switched her gaze from the ocean sparkling in the sun out of a clear sky to the hills dropping almost precipitously above the highway. Rounded hill after rounded hill rolled away into the distance. Bleached by the sun, they had a piebald appearance.

  Here and there she caught sight of a strange isolated house clinging to the hillside high up. She found the architecture weird. Every form of contorted shape seemed to have been used to make an expensive-looking dwelling unique. Roofs dropped at a sheer angle above spacious terraces built of stone. Tweed saw her looking up.

  'Millionaire stuff.' he remarked. 'Each one trying to outdo the other. An American characteristic. If you've got the dollars, then show them. Look at that one near the summit - it has copper-sheathed chimneys.'

  'And a huge swimming pool.'

  'Oh, yes. Always a swimming pool, often of marble and with a fantastic shape. I've been phoned by people out here who start with, "I'm calling from poolside." Just like Hollywood. Money doesn't roar out here - it bellows at the top of its voice ...'

  They drove on and Tweed suddenly leaned forward in his seat. Swinging round yet another curve, the highway began to descend. Below them in the distance was a giant bridge with an immense rainbow-shaped arch just below the highway which crossed it. He called out to Paula, sitting in the back next to Marler.

  "There's the famous Bixby Bridge. If I remember correctly it's over two hundred and fifty feet above the creek which flows out under it into the ocean.'

  'I've seen lots of photos of it,' Paula replied. 'Exciting to actually cross it...'

  The highway dropped and dropped, Newman skilfully swung the car round more curves, then the road was level. As they crossed the vast structure the wheels were thumping.

  "They've put struts of some material across the road over this bridge,' Newman explained, 'to slow down motorists...'

  They drove on and the scenery grew more hypnotic. Paula kept turning her gaze from the ranges of hills sweeping down to the Pacific to the coast of rugged capes, the sea throwing up s
urf as it hit great rocks. She checked the map, remembering she was supposed to be navigator.

  'We're approaching Big Sur,' Tweed warned.

  'Mrs Benyon's house, The Apex, is marked as being close to it. What's that old house perched above the ocean on our right? Looks triangular. Could that be it? Alvarez has marked it as somewhere near here.' said Paula.

  'And what's that huge crazy mansion of black stone near the top of the mountain on the other side?' Newman asked.

  'I'd say that's Black Ridge.' Tweed said grimly.

  "That's really weird.' commented Paula. 'All on its own and with a black stone wall which appears to run all the way round it.'

  'Mullion Towers in California.' Newman commented.

  'And look at the Gothic chimneys and then that enormous picture window on the first floor. It's a caricature of architecture.' Paula exclaimed.

  'What isn't round here?' Marler drawled.

  'I think this is The Apex, Bob.' Paula called out quickly. 'Yes, it is. Rather a crude wooden sign at the entrance to the drive.'

  Take us up that mountain slope.' Tweed ordered. 'I wonder what Mrs Benyon will have to tell me?'

  20

  Tweed pressed the bell beside the strange front door, pointed out to Paula the peculiar cabbalistic signs on the paving stones which formed the terrace. 'We've got a real nutter here.' he said to himself. He had decided to bring Paula, who might help to reassure the occupant.

  Pressing the doorbell caused cathedral-like bells to peal continuously inside the house. While he waited Paula took a pair of small field glasses from her shoulder bag. She focused them on a large ship motionless about half a mile off the coast.

  Take a look,' she invited.

  "The Baja California V,' said Tweed, reading the name of the vessel. 'Looks like some sort of large dredger.'

  From the far side of the door he heard three locks being opened, followed by the removal of two chains. He lifted his eyebrows at Paula and the door swung inwards. Framed in it was the grossest woman he had ever met.

  Small, her grey hair tied back in an old-fashioned bun, she was immensely fat, in her early seventies he guessed, and wore a purple dress which had a high collar and draped to her ankles. A jewelled brooch with a strange sign held her collar together.