The Cauldron

by Colin Forbes

  'Helicopter. Big job. Can carry forty troops. Funny shape. We're in business, Tweed.'

  'He didn't ask why you weren't back in Washington,' commented Paula.

  'No, he didn't.'

  Back in his apartment, Tweed told Paula to check with the concierge that their earlier bookings for a flight to London were being reconfirmed day to day.

  'Also add the names Mrs Benyon, Alvarez, and Julie Davenport.'

  'Who is this Julie Davenport?'

  'My secret weapon. Remember, in the States Julie is sometimes the shortened version of Julian.'

  'And I'm not supposed to ask who Julian is?'

  "That's right. Also book a seat for Peregrine Hamilton.'

  'If you say so. I think I'll do it now. I noticed when we came in the lobby was deserted except for a few staff. No one will be there to eavesdrop on meRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'

  She broke off, on the point of leaving the apartment, when the phone rang. She picked it up, listened, handed it to Tweed.

  'It's Hoarse Voice,' she whispered.

  'Tweed here.'

  He listened, then gestured for Paula to wait. Paula saw him frown, then he listened again. It was quite a few minutes before he put down the phone.

  'Yes,' he said, 'do as I suggested.'

  'So we are getting out of California?'

  'Soon. If we survive. I should send you home now.'

  'You know my answer to that. I'm going along to the lobby.'

  As she hurried along the corridor the words echoed in her mind. If we survive.

  On her way to breakfast the following morning Paula met Vanity. She thought the normally exuberant Vanity Richmond looked preoccupied.

  'Good morning, Vanity.' she said. 'Another lovely day. What are you doing here? I thought you slept at Black Ridge.'

  'I do, but I couldn't do that - sleep, I mean. So I got up early and decided to come here for breakfast.'

  'Let's have it together.'

  'Great idea.'

  'I hear you're leaving your job with Moloch.' Paula said casually as they sat down at a table in Roy's. I'd have thought it would be difficult to get a bigger job than the one you have.'

  'Not really. In any case, I feel it's time to have a change. Wanderlust you'd call it, I suppose.'

  'Admit it,' Paula teased her, 'you're just a natural career girl.'

  For the first time Vanity smiled. They chatted for a while and then Vanity said she had to go to the powder room but she would be back. Left on her own Paula's mind moved into high gear. What was going on?

  There was something ominous in the way Tweed had made arrangements for a sudden departure at short notice. Why were the next few days so important? Who were the extra passengers Tweed had asked her to book seats for on the flight home? Why did they need a helicopter to reach San Francisco? And what was the 'bait' Tweed proposed using to trap The Accountant? Paula did not feel at all happy about what was happening.

  The odd thing was she had sensed a similar unease in Vanity's attitude. It was as though some sinister unidentified menace was hanging over them. Vanity came back after quite an absence. She picked up her shoulder bag off her chair.

  'Sorry, Paula. I've had a call to return to Black Ridge at once. I suppose His Lordship has another mountain of work he wants me to attend to yesterday. Please do excuse me.'

  When she had gone Paula got up from the breakfast table. If Vanity had gone to the powder room, why hadn't she taken her shoulder bag?

  She was crossing the lobby when Grenville appeared from nowhere. He took her by the arm, was at his most charming.

  'You go with the morning and the weather. Bright and beautiful.'

  "Thank you.' She noticed he had pouches of fatigue under his eyes, but he still carried himself erect and had his normal air of self-confidence and bounce. 'What are you doing today?' she asked.

  'Trying to find Maurice. He's disappeared. Blighter owes me a large sum of money. Shouldn't have granted him the loan - he'll just spend it on drink. Awful thing to say about a fellow countryman, but you must have noticed. Everyone else has.'

  'He struck me as being very sober when I met him once in Cornwall.'

  She was watching Grenville as she spoke. He looked thoughtful. Then he guided her to a couch. Settling himself, he glanced at her.

  'Funny rumour going round about Tweed. Heard it at breakfast. Chap told me Tweed was going to the flat where that Standish woman was murdered. Thinks he can find some evidence the police overlooked, I suppose.'

  'Who told you that?' Paula asked quickly.

  'Don't know the chap from Adam. An Englishman. Not one of my people at the club I run.'

  'When is he going there?' Paula demanded.

  'Hold on, old girl. You sound like The Thatcher in one of her wilder moods. The answer is I've no idea. Whole thing sounded barmy to me. Then another chap, Dawlish, who attends Anglo-Pacific do's, told me the same thing. Place seems abuzz with the rumour. Off already?'

  'I've just remembered a phone call I've got to make. A friend c'

  Almost in a panic, which she forced herself to quell, Paula hurried to Tweed's room. She pressed the bell repeatedly, got no response. Running along the corridor, she pushed open a heavy door leading to the lawn and the terraces outside rooms. No one was about as she continued running to the outside of Tweed's room.

  She stopped on his patio, peered inside the living room. No sign of Tweed. She hammered on the window with her clenched fist. Maybe he was taking a bath. Pressing her face against the glass, she saw the door leading into the bathroom from the entrance to the living room was open. He would never have left it open if he was taking a bath or a shower.

  She ran back to her own room. She had left the windows open to let in fresh air. Slipping inside, she tore into the bedroom, went down on her hands and knees, tore free the pouch containing spare ammo she had Sellotaped to the underside of the bed.

  She went out the direct way, through her bathroom, then stopped. The large circular mirror about five inches in diameter, which she used occasionally when applying make-up for a special occasion, was gone. It was the type which folded down into a compact disc. What the hell was going on?

  Then she remembered she'd noticed the window she'd left open was closed more than she had left it. Someone had come into the room from the outside. To pinch a make-up mirror? She knew something strange was happening but couldn't work out what it was.

  Restless, she left her apartment, hurried out of the hotel in search of Newman. She reached the lobby doors leading to the outside world just in time to see Grenville pulling away in his car. In the distance she saw Vanity's car disappearing round a bend, exceeding the speed limit inside the hotel's grounds. Where was everyone going?

  Moving swiftly, she walked along the arcade of shops leading to the car park where Newman left the Merc. Butler was sitting behind the wheel. He got out, gave a rare smile.

  'You're off too, then?'

  'Who else has left?'

  'Well, Vanity just took off like a rocket. Then Grenville drove after her, at a more sedate pace.'

  'I know that. I saw them going. Where is Newman?'

  'Taking a shower. He told me to stay here to watch over the car. Apparently Tweed told him last night nothing was happening this morning, so he could sleep in. He told Marler the same thing. All quiet on the Western Front.'

  'Is it? Has anyone else left? Where is the BMW?'

  'Oh, Tweed took that. I offered to go with him as back-up but he said he was only going to interview someone in Carmel, that it would be better if he was on his own...'

  'When did he leave?'

  'Must be half an hour ago. Funny thing was he took one of my Walthers with him. Said maybe that would make me feel better about not going with him.'

  'Oh, my God!'

  I'm going to set a trap for The Accountant... By providing bait which will be irresistible.

  With horror she recalled Tweed's words the previous evening. Then she realized the signific
ance of the rumours Grenville had told her about. Tweed had spread them. He had probably phoned Black Ridge anonymously, giving someone the same rumour. It would be all over Black Ridge - large company staffs were always gossip shops. It hit her like a blow in the stomach. Tweed himself was setting himself up as the bait inside the Standish apartment. And he had decided to take on this dangerous job all on his own.

  36

  Tweed sat at the desk where Linda Standish had died. He had brought with him a sheaf of Spanish Bay note-paper. On the sheets, now scattered over the bloodstained desk, were various meaningless figures he had scribbled at random. On one sheet was a list of suspects.

  In front of him, partly concealed by one of the sheets, was the make-up mirror he had borrowed from Paula's apartment. From Paula's description of her horrific experience when The Accountant had attempted to garrotte her, he had realized the murderer must have crept out from the toilet behind him. The non-magnifying side of the mirror was now angled so he could partly see behind himself.

  The right-hand drawer beside him was half open. Under a sheet of notepaper was the Walther he had obtained from Butler.

  Prior to settling himself behind the desk, he had wandered round the block, noting the cars parked by the kerb. He had seen Maurice emerging from the exit to the courtyard. Maurice had paused, went back inside as though to fetch something he had forgotten. He was smartly dressed in a lightweight business suit.

  Tweed had continued strolling round the block to give Maurice time to leave the apartment. In his pocket Tweed had a bunch of skeleton keys given to him by Marler on a previous occasion.

  Earlier, well before leaving Spanish Bay, he had used the phone to call several people who had been at Grenville's Anglo-Pacific party. He had told them he had heard that Tweed was visiting the Standish apartment during the morning. He had also made an anonymous call to Black Ridge, giving Hogan, who had answered the phone, the same message. Since most of the British residents were bored a lot of the time, he had no doubt they would chatter about what he had told them.

  Satisfied that he had given Maurice sufficient time to depart, he had entered the courtyard, climbed the iron staircase.

  The fourth skeleton key had opened the door to the

  apartment. Entering cautiously, he had observed Maurice's sleeping bag spread out against one wall. Leaving the front door open a few inches, he had explored the room. It had a fusty smell.

  When he opened the tall metal cabinet he had seen how Maurice had two wardrobes. One of old shabby clothes, the other of smart suits. He had smiled to himself, closed the door again. When he tried to open the door to the toilet it was firmly jammed shut. He remembered the difficult job Detective Anderson had had, pushing his whole weight against it to gain access.

  It was then that he had settled himself in the chair behind the desk, had started his swift scribbling. Buried deep inside the courtyard, Tweed could hear no sound of traffic, no sound at all. The heavy silence which would have disturbed most people had no effect on him.

  He had deliberately told none of his team what he intended. Any sign of guards watching the yard - even from a distance - could scare off The Accountant. After sitting there motionless there had been a brief incident, but he had dealt with it in his usual calm way. He began scribbling more useless figures on one of the sheets. An immobile figure might well arouse suspicion if The Accountant decided to visit him.

  Tweed was iron-nerved. The fact that he had set himself up as a target for an assassin who had never been caught caused him no anxiety. And his patience was infinite. The only sound he heard was of footsteps walking across the cobbled yard below the staircase. He waited for the footsteps to mount the staircase, but they receded. The locals probably used the yard as a shortcut.

  Several times he dropped his hand inside the open drawer to make sure he could grab the Walther quickly. The movement became practised. It was all a question now of whether his rumours had reached the right person.

  He glanced at his list of suspects. He was convinced that among the list of names was that of the assassin. But he was uncertain which name was that of the killer who called himself - or herself - The Accountant.

  Tweed had taken one other precaution before entering the apartment. While strolling round the block he had observed down a side street a curious shop sign - one of many in Carmel, a town of quaint and complex character. The symbol was of a large wooden pipe, curved downwards rather like a Sherlock Holmes pipe.

  Walking into the tiny shop, he had bought a tin of cigars. Outside, he had emptied the cigars into a litter bin. He had then prised off the lid, kept it and thrown the rest of the tin into the bin.

  Tweed always carried gloves in his trenchcoat pocket. Inside the apartment he had taken out one glove, inserted the lid of the tin box inside the glove so it rested on the palm of his hand. He now wore the glove on his left hand. He had recalled how only the chain-mail necklace round Paula's throat had saved her from being garrotted. The tin lid was a poor substitute for chain-mail, but it was better than nothing. He had rested his left hand in his lap - his ungloved right hand was needed for the Walther.

  Time passed. Nothing happened. Tweed continued to wait.

  At Tweed's suggestion, Newman had slept late. When he eventually woke he had a shower, shaved at leisure, dressed and went along the corridor towards Roy's for breakfast.

  To his astonishment he saw Butler sitting on a couch in the lobby. Seating himself beside him he spoke in a low voice.

  'I thought you were guarding the Merc.'

  'I was. Tweed came out, drove off by himself in the BMW. Later, Paula appeared. When I told her about Tweed she took the car and she drove off. By herself.'

  'By herself!' Newman almost went ballistic. 'Why didn't you go with her? Are you out of your mind?'

  'She insisted on going by herself. Try arguing with Paula when she has made up her mind. Oh, Tweed borrowed a Walther off me.'

  'A Walther? This gets worse and worse. Where was Tweed off to? And where was Paula going in the Merc.?'

  'No idea. Neither of them said. I thought it peculiar, but arguing with Tweed or Paula when they've decided to do something is a waste of breath.'

  'Let me get this clear,' Newman snapped. 'First Tweed drives off in the BMW - after getting a Walther from you. Then Paula arrives, takes the Merc, and she drives off somewhere unknown. Have I got it?'

  'You have. There was nothing I could do.' Butler protested.

  'And you've no idea where either of them was going to? So they left separately?'

  'That's what happened.'

  Newman sat stunned with anxiety, trying to decide what to do. An English woman he had talked with briefly at Grenville's party stopped to have a word with him. He stood up.

  'Have you heard the rumours? Most odd, I thought.'

  'What rumours?' he asked politely.

  'Your boss, Tweed, has gone off to visit the Standish apartment where that poor woman detective was murdered. A lot of people are gossiping about it. Seems a little ghoulish, if you don't mind my saying so.'

  'I wonder if you could do me a great favour,' Newman said quickly. 'Have you a car I could borrow for a short trip? Mine has broken down. It's a question of a friend being taken ill suddenly.'

  'Of course. Come with me. I have a Cadillac in the car park. Here are the keys. Not too seriously ill, I hope.'

  'I won't know till I get there.'

  The English woman wasted no time. Walking briskly, she escorted Newman to her cream Cadillac. He thanked her as he was unlocking the door, climbing behind the wheel.

  He took off at speed the moment he had left the car park. It sounded like madness. Tweed, he felt sure now, was inside the Standish apartment. Keeping within the speed limit, remembering that other drivers' lives were at stake, he raced as best he could for Junipero. He didn't realize he was too late.

  Tweed was scribbling more figures on a sheet to keep himself alert when he saw the toilet door open behind him in the mir
ror. A hooded figure emerged, holding a garrotte. Tweed was reaching for the open drawer when the hooded figure's right foot slammed into the drawer. Tweed snatched his hand out of the way just in time before his fingers were broken.

  He tried to push his chair back with a violent lurch, but the assassin had both feet against the back legs of the chair. Tweed was trapped. He jerked his gloved hand up to his neck. A second later the garrotte swept over his head, pressed against his glove, ripped through the cloth, came up against the metal lid.

  Tweed used the gloved hand to force the garrotte away from his neck. Then he felt the wire touch the other side of his neck where there was no protection. His head was going to be severed from his body.

  The bulky bedroll against the wall came to life. Paula slid out of it. Lying on the floor she raised her Browning. She fired one random bullet. It startled the assassin who leapt back, giving her an open target. She pressed the trigger again and again. The magazine held nine rounds. The hooded figure staggered back towards the door. She was amazed at how hard her target was to kill. It was still stumbling back towards the half-open door as she continued shooting, emptying the magazine as it reached the top of the staircase.

  Outside Newman was nearly at the top of the staircase when be saw the figure begin to fall over backwards down it. He grabbed it round the waist, heaved it up and back inside the room. It was a dead weight. He pushed it forward and the corpse slammed down on the floor, one hand fixed to the garrotte. Closing the door, Newman reached down.

  Tweed was on his feet, using his gloved hand to screw up the papers which he rammed into his pocket. The mirror went into the other pocket, then he turned round, the Walther in his hand.

  'Who is it?' Paula asked, breathless.

  Newman carefully took hold of the hood. The figure was sprawled on its side. Pulling off the woolly hood -with slits for the eyes - Newman exposed the face. The face of Byron Landis.

  37