by Colin Forbes
'How did she sound? When she phoned you? They take a regular holiday?'
'Which question first? I'm not on a quiz show. No, they'd never taken a holiday before. Not away. She sounded peaky on the phone – as though she needed the holiday.'
'Peaky? Nervous, perhaps?' Benoit pressed.
'Come to think of it, yes. Short conversation. For her. In a rush to get off to Majorca. Two days ago that would be.'
'Have you a key? Did you see her before she left?'
'No! Told you, she phoned. When I came round they'd gone. And no key. What's this all about?'
'One good heave would open the front door,' Sonnet called out. 'Newman has been round the house, says it looks empty. The kitchen is a mess…'
'How dare you!' Madame Joris stormed up the path. 'Marline is a clean and neat housewife. I don't believe it.'
'Unwashed dishes piled up in the sink,' Newman whispered to Sonnet.
'One good heave. These locks are useless…"
Sonnet pressed a shoulder against the lock side of the door and pushed. It held for a moment, there was a click, the door swung inward. Sonnet recovered his balance.
'You can't do that!' screamed Madame Joris.
'My impression,' Benoit told her amiably, 'is we have just done it …'
'I'm coming in…'
'I was about to ask you if you would be so kind as to do just that.'
Paula tiptoed in behind Sonnet, gestured to the rug in the small hall which was askew. Madame Joris pushed past them after Sonnet and followed him into the kitchen. She stared at the piled-up unwashed dishes.
'Something's wrong.' She sounded alarmed for the first time. 'Martine would never go out shopping leaving things like that. Let alone on holiday.'
'Could you check her clothes, please?' asked Benoit.
Madame Joris came hustling down the tiny staircase in less than a minute. She was agitated and held a pair of shoes in her hand.
'Her best shoes. Bought in a sale. She'd never leave those, her Sunday shoes. Something's terribly wrong. You do realize that, I hope?'
She made the statement as though she were the first to raise the alarm. Tweed stood watching her, hands thrust inside his raincoat pockets. His mind went back to his days as a detective, when he'd stood just like this, confronting a new witness, deciding the best way to handle the unknown quantity.
'Madame Joris,' he began, 'may I congratulate you on your excellent powers of observation?'
She seemed to grow even larger, her full breasts sagging inside her flowered dress. 'I don't miss much, I can tell you that.'
'I'm sure you don't. You know this house. Would you take me over it, see what else you can spot?'
'Of course.' She mellowed visibly under Tweed's flattery, so delighted to be the centre of attraction. 'Shall we start upstairs?'
Tweed followed her up the tiny staircase, just wide enough for Joris to squeeze her bulk between banisters and wall. They went into a small bedroom. Joris began opening drawers. She spoke over her crouched form. 'Wouldn't do this normally, of course…'
'I understand, but Martine may be in great danger.' Tweed understood only too well; Joris was revelling in the opportunity to poke among her neighbour's things.
Tweed noted the neatly arranged items on Marline's dressing-table, the few carefully placed pots on window ledges. He looked at the bed, which was made up but had a rumpled appearance.
'Is that the way Martine would make up the bed?' he asked.
'It is not! An apple pie mess, I call that. She was very tidy in her habits.'
Another signal the girl had left behind to alert the police if they caught on to her disappearance. A clever girl, this Martine. And she must have been scared stiff, knowing she and her son were being abducted. The counterpane draped to the floor. Tweed caught sight of a piece of white paper protruding from under the counterpane. He looked round, saw Joris' ample buttocks facing him as she burrowed in a lower drawer. He bent down, took hold of the paper and dragged out a coloured brochure.
Luxair. The Luxembourg airline. The folder had three pages joined together. It had been folded back to a page headed Cargolux, the cargo-carrying branch of the airline. At the bottom, in black ink and scarcely legible script one word had been written. Rio. Tweed slipped the folder into his pocket.
'What about that wardrobe?' he suggested.
'Can't find anything in the drawers.' Joris marched over to the wardrobe, opened the double doors and stared inside as Tweed joined her. She stood with her arms akimbo, checking the hanging clothes.
'Didn't take her best dress, the one she also wears Sundays.' Her beady eyes dropped to the floor. 'And her travelling case is missing. Never used it. Never went anywhere. But she hoped to one day, when they were rich. That case was her hope for the future.'
Try the dressing-table,' Tweed suggested.
'If you say so. Mind you, I'm only doing this under police orders.' She looked up as Paula appeared in the doorway. 'Didn't know they were getting such good-looking Belgian policewomen these days. Brussels, I suppose?'
'That's right,' replied Paula.
She looked at Tweed as Joris bustled over to the dressing-table. Paula had a flair not only for languages; she had an acute ear for local pronunciation. With Tweed she now realized for the first time she could pass for a Belgian.
'More trouble.' Joris made her statement with a tinge of satisfaction. A touch of drama, even at a friend's expense, was livening up her dull life. 'She left her best undies,' Joris went on. 'What woman would go on holiday and do that. I've checked in there,' she said sharply as Paula separated the dresses inside the wardrobe, then went on checking the dressing-table drawers.
Paula beckoned behind her back to Tweed. He joined her and she pointed at the rear wall behind the dresses. 'She used lipstick,' she whispered. Scrawled hastily in thick red on the wall were two half-finished words. Peug. Jaun.
'He – or they – came for her in a yellow Peugeot,' Tweed whispered back. 'We simply must save this girl and her son.'
'If they're still alive,' Paula responded sombrely.
'What made you think of looking at the wall?'
'Because it's the place I'd have chosen if I was being kidnapped. She must have concealed the lipstick in her hand. While she was taking down a few dresses she scrawled that message.'
'Nothing else,' Joris called out to Tweed. 'Are you feeling all right?'
Tweed, glassy-eyed, had gone into a trance, thoughts flashing through his mind. He blinked, smiled at Joris. 'Lack of sleep, nothing more. Incidentally, shouldn't the boy, Lucien, be at school?'
'I asked that when she phoned. She said she'd phone to the school and tell them Lucien had the flu.'
It took them only a few minutes to check the rest of the upper floor and they descended the staircase. Joris burst out with her discoveries to Benoit with an air of triumph. He listened, lips pursed at her attitude. Tweed waited until she'd finished before he asked the question.
'Did you notice a car pass your house? You're further down the road, nearer the village from the direction you came. I'm referring to the day when Marline phoned you. Perhaps half an hour or so before the phone call?'
'I heard a car, yes. But I couldn't get to…" Joris broke off, her eyes shifting round the kitchen… the window before it had gone up the hill. Tweed mentally completed her sentence. She was the local busybody.
'Did you hear a car return past your house later – say within another half hour?' he pressed.
'No! There is very little traffic all day.'
'Excuse me a moment.' Tweed took the arm of Benoit, who was chatting in undertones with Paula, and led him to the front room, nodding for Paula to follow. 'Benoit, we're looking for a yellow Peugeot…'He described what Paula had found inside the wardrobe. 'And when the car took Martine and Lucien away it drove on uphill – away from the village. Otherwise Miss Nosey Parker would have seen it – she obviously keeps a close eye on what's going on. And she didn't even hear it coming
back.'
'Makes sense.' Benoit peered out of the front window where a police car with three uniformed men had stopped. 'The locals have arrived. We can get them moving on the search.'
Paula had been standing with her right hand crooked, studying her fingernails. A mannerism Tweed had already become familiar with: an idea had struck her. Paula frowned as she recalled the A Vendre estate agent's board outside another cottage in the village. She caught Tweed's eye. He nodded again.
'Excuse me,' Paula said, 'but I've been thinking of the sort of place they might be holding Martine and her son. Not too far away, I'd guess – the risk of being spotted by a local in a car would be too great.'
'Makes sense,' Benoit agreed. 'Do go on.'
'I've often thought the ideal place to hold a kidnapped person would be in a house for sale. The kidnapper could find a suitable empty house, call on the agent, say he agreed the price, pay a deposit, but it would take a while to get it surveyed. It's then completely at the kidnapper's disposal.'
'Ingenious. Very.' Benoit looked at Paula with admiration, turned to Tweed. 'If Miss Grey ever wants a job with us here in Belgium I'm sure I could oblige.'
'Thank you. There's something else,' Paula persisted. 'It has to be a suitable place, I said. By which I mean a property remote from the road – and preferably already equipped with facilities to turn a part of it into a prison. Maybe a room with a child's nursery – with bars already on the windows. Or perhaps something even more specialized – some property that's been on the market a while.'
'Better and better.' Benoit rubbed his hands. 'I'll just go and instruct those men coming down the path. Back soon.'
Tweed waited until they were alone. 'Quick, ask Newman to join me. And tell Butler to hold that Joris woman's attention in the kitchen. I'm sure she doesn't understand English. Speak rapidly…'
Sonnet had followed Lasalle into the front garden where they were talking to the new arrivals. Tweed held the Luxair brochure in his hand when Newman arrived with Paula. This is what I found almost under the bed upstairs. I think the abductor dropped it out of his pocket, Martine saw it, kicked it under the bed. One thing I'd bet money on – Klein sent one of his thugs to do the job.'
'What makes you think that?' asked Newman as he studied the brochure.
'Klein would never have let Martine get away with the signals she left us. The unwashed dishes in the sink, the rumpled bed, this brochure. He's sharp as a knife…'He grimaced at the simile. 'Well, we know how he uses knives.'
'This brochure points to Luxembourg City…'
'And Peter Brand has a branch of his Banque Sambre there. We haven't the time – but I think we'd better go there now. Benoit may let us use the Alouette… Talk of the devil.'
Benoit came into the room, spread his hands. 'Good news and bad. Sonnet has heard over his radio a forensic team arrived aboard the Gargantua. But it could be days before a report lands on my desk in Paris. The corpse of Broucker is glued in by heavy mud. At least they've made a start.'
'And the bad news?'
'Telephone strike here in Belgium – overtime ban officially. Which makes phoning from lock to lock difficult – to locate the Erika. I've organized a team of police cyclists to ride the towpaths. It siows down the check.'
'Why not start at the far end?' Tweed suggested.
'Which is the far end? Where was the Erika bound for?'
'You have a point,' Tweed admitted. 'I have a favour to ask. Could we borrow the Alouette to fly us to Luxembourg City?'
'Ah! You're on to something. Only on condition I fly with you. There's close cooperation between the Luxembourg and Belgian police. I might even come in handy.'
'You're most welcome. Has the search started for that poor girl Marline and her son? You do see how it all begins to link up? Haber had carried out some commission for Klein – transporting the stolen bullion, I'm sure. Then he'd had enough – possibly when Klein asked him to transport those timers aboard the Erika. But Klein, the clever bastard, had foreseen Haber might kick up. So first he arranges for one of his minions to kidnap Haber's family. With that hanging over his head Haber has to do anything Klein demands – even including standing by when Klein murders his employee, Broucker. Someone else had become expendable – this time Broucker. The track record shows how Klein deals with anyone he no longer needs.'
'He must be a fiend incarnate,' Benoit mused.
'Oh, he's all of that. Can we get moving? One of those cars could take us back to Dinant – where the chopper is.'
Klein was livid with rage. In Brussels he had just visited the Banque Sambre headquarters in the Avenue Louise to see Peter Brand.
'Mr Brand is in Luxembourg City,' the attractive receptionist informed him. 'He flew there in his executive jet this morning. Can I take a message for…'
'When is he expected back?'
'He will be at his office in Luxembourg City all day. You could phone him…"
'But I can't because there is a phone strike,' Klein said harshly.
'I am really very sorry, sir. Who shall I say called?'
She was talking to the air. The visitor, wearing a smart grey business suit had walked off to the entrance with long strides. Klein had changed from the black outfit with the wide-brimmed hat he had often worn in France. There he had frequently been mistaken for a priest. Which had been his intention; like a postman, he merged with the landscape and was forgotten within minutes of being noticed.
He hailed a cab in the Avenue Louise, told the driver to take him to Brussels Midi, and forced himself to relax. In his mind he was recalling from his phenomenal memory the times of the trains to Luxembourg City. If the cab kept moving he'd just be in time to catch the express which went on to Basle.
Arriving at Midi, he hurried to the ticket counter, bought a first-class return, checked the departure board and ran up the steps. He sank into the seat of an empty compartment as the express began to move.
He never made advance appointments with anyone -they were dangerous because they forecast your movements. But Brand had told him he would be available at the Banque Sambre. It had never occurred to Klein he might mean the branch in Luxembourg City. And he was puzzled what Brand was doing in that part of the world -the last place he wanted attention drawn to.
31
The Alouette flew in brilliant sunshine on a south-easterly course bound for Luxembourg City. Tweed sat with Newman, a map spread across their laps, while Benoit chatted with Butler in front. Butler stared down through the window at the corrugated landscape of wooded ravines and ridges which were the Ardennes.
'According to your markings on that map we're flying in the wrong direction,' Newman observed.
'So it would seem,' Tweed agreed.
The unfolded map of Western Europe carried route markings in felt-tip ink, markings which ended in bold arrows pointing north, always north.
One route began at Marseilles and proceeded north direct to Paris. From where Klein had hired the explosives expert, Chabot – and where Chabot's girl friend, Cecile Lament, the bar girl, had been dragged from the sea with her throat cut.
A second route started at Geneva, went on to Basle, continued to Dinant and up the Meuse to Namur. Tweed had added a dotted line from Namur, following a circuitous route to Antwerp. Newman pointed to this.
'What does that suggest?'
'It looks like Antwerp. You want facts? Lara Seagrave ended her photographic expeditions in Antwerp – before returning to Brussels – only a short train ride from the port. I am also convinced that missing barge is carrying the timers to the target. Follow the Meuse, see how you can branch off it north of Liege along the Albert Canal – direct to where? Antwerp.'
'So why are we flying south – away from the possible target area?'
'Because of that brochure I found in Marline's cottage. It was folded to the Cargolux page – as I showed you. There is a huge fortune in gold bullion being held at the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt – only a short flight from Findel.'
>
'Findel?'
'The airport we are heading for- only six kilometres from Luxembourg City. And the word Rio was written on that brochure. Rio de Janeiro. In Brazil. A country with no extradition treaty. I asked Lasalle before he left to return to Paris to check with Interpol on Brazil. A long shot.'
'What was? Stop being so cryptic.'
'I remembered the infamous Ronald Biggs, the Great Train Robbery villain. We couldn't extradite him even with the most solid evidence. Why? Because he had made a Brazilian girl pregnant. Interpol will try to check whether a man with a German-sounding name – Klein, whatever -has fathered a child by a Brazilian mother. Then, whatever crime he commits he will be safe.'
'And you think he'll try and fly to Rio from Findel?'
'I think he might fly the gold bullion obtained by a terrible terror threat to Brazil via Findel.'
'As you said, a long shot.'
'The one thing that keeps nagging at me is the explosives. I simply can't see that they were transported by barge. Far too big a consignment, far too dangerous.'
'And every time you mention them,' Newman commented, 'I feel I know something I haven't told you and can't recall. Why is Harry Butler coming with us?'
'To watch the Banque Sambre in Luxembourg City. You give him a description of Peter Brand when we reach Findel, he hires a car and drives to take up watch on Brand's bank in the Avenue de la Liberte.'
Lara Seagrave was becoming bored by the luxury of the Mayfair Hotel in Brussels. She had explored the shops, visited the famous Grand'Place where medieval buildings of different periods walled each side of the square. She'd also noticed a uniformed policeman leaning out of a window and had located to police headquarters.
She sat in front of the dressing-table mirror, brushing her long hair. She picked up the envelope which had been waiting when she arrived. The outside simply carried her typed name. On a blank sheet of paper inside was typed a message.
It won't be long now. Have patience. No long absences from the Mayfair. K.
Klein had foreseen there was a limit to the time she could be kept dangling – that she would grow restless. Hence the letter.