by Colin Forbes
Seton-Charles looked like anything but a professor in Greek Studies as he drove back to the Victorian bed-and-breakfast boarding house in Norwich close to midnight. He wore a boiler suit used for gardening. Before leaving his bungalow he had smeared the overalls with a mixture of oil and grease.
He had decided to leave for Norwich early and had driven off ten minutes after Tweed and Paula made their way back to Porlock Weir from Reams' house. Now he would be in Norwich, ready to visit Camelford Removals, first thing the following day.
Well along the A303 he had seen a truck drivers' cafe and had pulled in alongside a giant twelve-wheeler. Inside the cafe he ordered a mug of steaming tea and sat down at a table close to the door. The place was full of drivers, some chatting, others slumped over their own mugs. A juke box playing pop records had added to the noise and the place was filled with blue smoke.
After drinking half the mug of tea, Seton-Charles had left. On his way out he paused to button up his suit at the neck. He eyed the row of caps hanging from wooden hooks. He took a cap with a plastic peak and walked out.
He didn't try it on until he reached a lay-by well clear of the cafe. It fitted well enough. And for the rimless glasses he normally wore he had substituted his spare pair of horn-rims.
After reserving a room for the night at the boarding house, he ordered a plate of fish and chips and another mug of tea at a cheap cafe. While he ate he studied the town map he had bought from a newsagent. He decided to take a look at Camelford Removals. He parked the Volvo round the corner from the warehouse, surprised to see lights inside. The figure of a man was silhouetted against a grimy window.
'I've come to take a look at a couple of furniture vans,' he informed a short middle-aged man who introduced himself as Mr Latimer, owner of the bankrupt business. 'They mayn't be what I'm after, but I come on spec…'
He slurred his vowels and spoke with a coarse accent. Latimer showed him the four vans still for sale. Seton-Charles chose the two largest, then began haggling over the price, which was expected. He bargained carefully: not offering too little but refusing to agree to Larimer's first price.
They compromised and Seton-Charles pulled a bundle of well-used fifty-pound notes from a pocket in his stained overalls. He paid the agreed deposit and Latimer held several of the notes up to the naked light bulb suspended over a roughened table.
"Done.' he had said 'You'll collect soon? Pay the balance before you drive them away?'
'Only way to do business. Night…'
As he settled between grubby sheets that night Seton-Charles was satisfied. Within two days he'd have both vans hidden away in the barn at Cherry Farm. Although God knew what Jupiter wanted them for.
41
At the Grande Bretagne Newman had caught on to the game Christina was playing. She was holding back on supplying more information to keep him there as a protector against Petros and the Gavalas family. He was on the verge of threatening to leave – to force her hand – when something happened that decided him to he patient a little longer.
The killer heatwave had broken. It was a mere SOT. September temperature. Marler arrived at 9 a.m. in Newman's room, sprawled on a sofa. He lit a cigarette.
'Well,' said Newman, 'get on with it. What's happened?'
'Patience, chum. You know I've been paying frequent visits to the Cape Sounion area. Object of the exercise to keep an eye on Florakis traipsing up the mountain at night with that transmitter.'
'You're sure it is a transmitter?'
'Absolutely. Took a pair of high-powered night glasses with me. Spent night after night watching him. It's stopped.'
'What has?'
'Do listen. Florakis has stopped making his excursions with the jolly old transmitter. I realized something last night – out of the blue, so to speak. It coincides with no moon.'
'You mean he only transmits when there's a moon? Doesn't make sense.'
'Transmits for about two weeks – when the moon's waxing and waning. Only possible explanation? It's important to the man he's transmitting to. Something else happened. Equally important. Tweed wants to interview friend Petros, I believe?'
'Yes he does. When he can get out here…'
'Better make it soon. That snide Dimitrios spotted me watching by the sea shore. Crept up on me. Thought I must be deaf and blind. Put down his rifle, came up behind me, grabbed hold of me. Thought he was going to throttle me, silly ass.'
'So why not tell me what happened next?' Newman asked in a resigned tone.
'Just going to. He ended up flat on the ground, arms pinned to his sides, my knee in his groin. He gave me a splendid opportunity to get him talking. He talked.'
'And how did you accomplish that feat?'
'As I said, we were by the edge. No one about. Still dark. I dragged him to the water's edge. Goes down deep there. Held his head under water three times. He thought I was going to drown him. Which I would have done if he hadn't opened his mouth.'
'Get on with it,' Newman snapped. 'What did you learn?'
'Within two weeks Petros is leaving Devil's Valley. He's owner of a cattle farm in the far north. Macedonia. Tweed would have trouble finding him there. Two weeks,' Marler repeated. 'Up to Tweed, wouldn't you say?'
'I'll call him from the Embassy. But first I'm going back for a word with Christina. You made Dimitrios talk. I'm going to do the same job on her about Anton.' A thought occurred to him as he grasped the door handle. 'Surely you've blown it. Dimitrios will go straight back to Petros and tell him what happened?'
'Doubt that. I warned him. If I heard he'd said anything the next time I saw him would be the last. For him. And he's going to keep quiet for another reason. If he told Petros he'd spilt the beans the old man would kill him.
You'll want me to guard Christina when you go to the Embassy, I take it?'
'I'll want you to do just that. Stay with her.'
'Hurry it up, then. I'm short of sleep.'
Christina had just finished drying her washed mane when Newman entered her room. She threw it back over her shoulders.
'How do I look?'
'Never mind that.' His voice was harsh. 'Marler and I will be leaving if you don't start telling me everything you know about Anton. You're on your own.'
'No!' She was appalled. 'Petros will find me. He'll kill me.'
'That's your problem. A family tiff…'
Tiff! Don't you realize yet what he's like?'
'Start telling me then.' Newman perched on the edge of the bed. He folded his arms and stared out of the window, not looking at her as she slumped into a chair.
'I'm frightened. I've told you so much about them already. If Anton found out he'd be even worse than Petros. Anton is cruel.'
'I'm still waiting.' He looked at his wristwatch. 'But not for long.'
'You're a bastard…'
'I have diplomas to prove it. Stop stalling.'
She sat down in a large armchair, curled herself inside it like a cat, exposing her long legs. He made a point of not admiring them as she began.
'Anton is one of those people who can do anything. An expert at scuba-diving. Good with boats. Anything mechanical. He can design and build a word processor, a video recorder, a transceiver. And repair them if they break down. He's experienced with hydraulics. He got an estimate for a lift to be installed in his warehouse at Piraeus. thought it too much – so he built the damned thing himself. He's a good horse rider, but I told you that…' Once started, she didn't stop. 'He's an expert on handguns and rifles. A crack shot with both. Won some kind of trophy once at Bisley in England. For God's sake, isn't that enough? Oh, and he's a hell-raiser with the women. I think I told you that before.'
'A bit of an all-rounder,' Newman mused.
'He's also good at carpentry. Very good.'
'Carpentry?'
'Building anything out of wood. He made all the furniture for his room at the farm in Devil's Valley. That's the only decently furnished room. The rest is a slum.'
'Wh
y didn't you tell me this before? People must know his many talents.'
'No, not many. He's very secretive. He likes his image of playboy. It amuses him to fool people. I loathe him -and I've never understood him. One more thing, he can fly any kind of light aircraft. Cessnas, Pipers, etc. He belonged to a flying club, then resigned once he'd mastered flying. Said he was bored with it. I think he craves excitement, new worlds to conquer. And he's very ambitious -to become one of the most important men in Greece. I really think I've given you the lot.' She watched him through her eyelashes. 'Do I still get protection?'
'You do. For as long as we can manage it. I have to go out for a short time. Marler will stay with you.'
'He'd better keep his distance,' she said viciously and picked up a hairbrush, 'or I'll crack his skull with this.'
'Argue it out with him while I'm gone.' Newman grinned. 'All I think he wants is kip – sleep. Alone…'
Tweed put down his office phone after asking Newman to call him daily. He sat for a few minutes, thinking. Paula and Monica were careful to keep quiet while they worked.
'Paula,' he announced, 'we have to fly to Greece – and soon. Inside the next couple of weeks. Monica, book a couple of first-class return tickets via Zurich. Open date. Bob has just told me Petros is leaving Devil's Valley for some other farm he has up in Macedonia. No one knows the territory up there. Marler and Newman do know Devil's Valley. I need to interrogate the old villain. He's crazed with a lust for vengeance. I want to find out whether he had Masterson killed.'
'How will you go about it?' Paula asked.
'I shall go into Devil's Valley with someone who speaks Greek as an interpreter. I'll grill him at his farm – the only way to get at him. He never comes to Athens – or rarely -so Newman said.'
'That could be dangerous,' Paula protested. 'He sounds mad as a hatter. And Newman told us earlier the area is crawling with armed shepherds.'
'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'
'I don't like it,' Paula insisted.
'No one asked you to.' He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken. 'I'm sorry, that was rude. I'm confused about this whole business. There seems no rhyme or reason to it. Unless the whole thing revolves round Petros.'
'You could ask Peter Sarris for help,' Paula suggested.
Tweed shook his head. 'No police until we know what we're getting into. We'll rely on our own resources.' He looked at Monica who had just made the phone call. 'All fixed up?'
'Two open date return tickets via Zurich booked.'
'Is this why we returned here so quickly from Porlock Weir?' enquired Paula.
'Yes. I felt I was getting out of touch with the position in Greece. Butler and Nield can keep a watch on any developments on Exmoor. You have your bag packed, Paula? Good. I may decide to leave suddenly for Athens.'
'Why go via Zurich?' Monica asked. 'Instead of flying direct?'
'I want to consult Arthur Beck. We'll call him before we leave. He often knows what's going on. And there are direct flights to Athens from Zurich.' He paused. 'So there are also flights direct from Athens to Zurich.'
'Oh Lord!' Monica groaned. 'He's being enigmatic again.'
Midnight. The storm had abated when the Oporto was rounding the tip of Cornwall. The sea now was just choppy as the vessel hove to west of Porlock Weir. On deck on the starboard side Anton held the flashlight and directed the coded signal towards the distant shore. Then he waited.
Gomez stood alongside him close to the gangway which had been lowered over the side. At the foot of the steps waves lapped over the metal platform. The canvas-wrapped Stingers, recovered from the hold, lay at Anton's feet. He wore a waterproof windcheater, thick seaman's trousers tucked inside rubber boots and over this gear a dark green oilskin. His suitcase was protected with another oilskin lashed round it with rope.
'You will need luck to make contact a second time,' Gomez commented.
'The crew are all below decks?' enquired Anton.
'As arranged – except for a lookout who can be trusted.' In the dark he smiled. 'He has been paid to be trusted… Look. Over there.'
Anton had already seen the light flashing its return signal from the shore. He checked the number of flashes, then sent a brief final signal, acknowledging, and rammed the flashlight inside a pocket of the oilskin.
'Now we have to wait. But not for long, I suspect…'
He was right. As the freighter rocked slowly under the surge of the sea the sound of an engine approaching reached his acute hearing. The night was moonless but soon both could see the white wake of the small boat. Anton reached down and hauled up with both hands the heavy weight of the canvas bundle. Gomez picked up the suitcase with one hand; with the other he raised a pair of night glasses to his eyes, leaning against the rail as he scanned the shoreline. They were two miles out. To the east he picked out the lights of Porlock Weir. He lowered the glasses.
'Be very careful when you go down the gangway. The steps will be slippery. You are carrying a heavy weight.'
'I'll be all right. And when I've left you're turning round and sailing out to sea, ready to come back tomorrow?'
'Do not worry. No one will know we arrived off England earlier.'
The small grey-coloured motorboat, powered by an outboard at its stern, was close. Gomez could make out the figure of the solitary man aboard. As before, he wore a Balaclava helmet under a dark green oilskin. He cut the power, the boat glided forward, bumped against the platform. Balaclava hurled up a mooring rope. Gomez caught it with his free hand, the glasses looped round his neck, made the rope fast to the rail.
Anton stood on the top platform, slowly went down, step by step. He rested the bundle on the rails on either side, letting them take the weight, sliding it down. The moored boat ground up against the Oporto 's hull, made a grating sound. Anton was half-way down when the sea lifted the freighter, then dropped it. Anton lost his grip, the bundle tumbled down the remaining steps, landed on the lower platform. He swore in Greek, grabbing the rails to recover his balance.
Balaclava leant forward, took hold of the cargo, heaved it up and lowered it quickly inside the boat. Anton stepped off the platform and joined him. Gomez called down, dropped the mooring rope he had untied and Balaclava hauled it in. dripping, looped round the handle of Anton's suitcase.
Anton sat down as his companion started up the outboard, grabbed the tiller and guided the boat away from the Oporto. He was just in time. A large wave lifted the boat, would have hurled it against the freighter, but Balaclava had steered the boat round. He headed for the distant shore.
The motorboat was coming in close to the rock-strewn coast. Behind it cliffs loomed, hiding them from the mainland. Anton was careful not to stare at the eyes which looked out through the slit in the Balaclava helmet.
He had no idea of the identity of his companion. When he had landed on his previous trip to Exmoor the same man had met him, wearing the same gear. Because of the loose flapping oilskin he wore it was impossible for Anton to guess Balaclava's height, build or age. Only the voice was distinctive. Upper-crust, clipped. On the rare occasions when he spoke.
As they approached the shore, the boat pitching and tossing, the engine was cut out. Balaclava crouched over the tiller, peering ahead, steering the craft towards a slope. There was a grinding sound as the keel rode up over rocks and pebbles, stopped.
'Take the weapons, put them in the vehicle.'
Anton heaved up the bundle, stepped out of the boat and staggered to the canvas-covered four-wheel-drive vehicle parked close to the shoreline. He used his shoulder to ease up the flap at the rear, hoisted the bundle higher, lowered it inside on top of a pile of coiled ropes. The wind whipped at his oilskin, blew it round his legs as he let the flap drop and went back for his case.
Balaclava had taken an axe attached to the side and began hammering at the deck. The axe was heavy, its blade honed like a razor. As he worked chips of wood flew up and he protected his eyes by holding one arm acr
oss them. He paused as Anton lifted out his case, turned to him.
'The sea goes down a hundred feet here. We have to lose this boat. Don't stand there watching me – keep an eye out along the shore.'
The axe began to sweep down again in thudding arcs. Inside a few minutes the boat was holed. Balaclava went on working, enlarging the gaping cavity. He was only satisfied when the hole was a foot wide, then he hurled the axe into the waves and returned to the vehicle. Climbing into the rear, he shifted the Stingers and covered them with the mass of rope. Jumping back on to the shore he gestured Anton to join him.
'We want to heave the boat over the edge. Give me a hand…'
They stood near the bow on either side and pushed with all their strength. The boat slid slowiy backwards, the outboard poised over the edge. They straightened up, stretching their strained arms, took hold of the boat again. One more prolonged heave and the boat was floating. It filled rapidly with water, drifting just offshore. Then it went down stern first. The bow hovered above the surface, disappeared.
Balaclava strode towards the vehicle, climbed in behind the wheel and Anton sat beside him. They drove off without lights, heading away from the sea, bumping and jostling over the rough terrain.
The driver switched on his lights as they reached the track past the cottages. He never gave a glance at the darkened dwelling where Mrs Larcombe had talked with Tweed. He drove on along the road at higher speed, passing The Anchor Hotel, continuing towards Porlock.
Reaching the toll road, he swung the vehicle up the steep curving slope. At the top he turned right again along the coast road. Beyond Culbone he turned left off the main road down on to the winding country lane which eventually led to the Doone Valley. For the first time he broke his long silence.
'Here is the key to the small house where you spend the night. It is unoccupied. And here is a pencil flashlight so you can find your way round it. The electricity is cut off. You will find canned meat, a tin opener, a loaf of bread, butter, knife, two bottles of mineral water inside a brown paper parcel in a downstairs room. Also a sleeping bag. The place is unfurnished. We'll park the vehicle in a garage alongside. But take the weapons into the house. Sleep with them by your side. And here is a sheathed knife for protection – to be used only in an emergency.'