by Colin Forbes
He took them into another room. One glance at the weapons laid out on a table, with ammo, confirmed to Newman what a remarkable memory the police chief had. Paula picked up a. 32 Browning automatic, some ammo. She was checking the gun when Benoit spoke.
`Empty. Your favourite gun. Made in Herstal. Although today our armaments industry at Herstal hardly exists any more. The collapse of the Soviet Union and other factors.'
Paula was loading the Browning as Newman picked up a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 Special. Alongside the ammo was a hip holster. Benoit never forgot a thing. Taking off his trench coat and jacket, Newman slipped on the holster, checked the mechanism of the gun, loaded it, put extra ammo in his coat packet. That left a 7.65mm. Walther automatic on the table. Benoit looked at Tweed, who shook his head.
`I hardly ever carry a gun.'
`Now for the perishing paperwork,' Benoit continued as he produced two forms which already had details typed in. 'Paula, Newman, sign these. They are permits for you to carry those weapons. Now it is all legal.'
`Benoit,' Tweed said, after checking his watch, 'we will have to buy tickets for Liege before we board that express.'
Benoit produced his wallet, extracted six slips of paper. He handed two to each of them.
`First-class return tickets to Liege. I will drive you to Midi station. Then with a team I will drive on to Liege, hoping to meet you at the station. It is quite a gamble…'
`I'm leaving now,' Newman broke in. 'I've got a Merc. outside. I think I can make it by road before Paula and Tweed reach Liege. Along the motorway. See you two…'
He was gone before anyone could protest. Benoit threw up his hands in mock horror, then ran to the window. Peering down, he took out a pad, made a note.
`I have his registration number. I'll leave instructions to be radioed along his route. To all patrol cars. That Merc. to be permitted to proceed at all costs. Now, we leave for Midi station…'
Tweed and Paula had a first-class compartment to themselves as the express raced eastward well beyond the Brussels suburbs. To Paula's surprise it was still daylight and the fog had gone. They were crossing open countryside and carefully ploughed fields stretched away on both sides. The bread-basket of Belgium. Here and there a dense copse of pine trees reared up. They passed isolated villages with neat rows of old brick-built terrace houses with steep-pitched roofs. In the distance the occasional church spire pointed skywards like a needle. Which prompted Paula's remark.
`I've been thinking about Hilary Vane – how she was murdered at Heathrow. It looked to me as though she was injected with cyanide. Her lips were blue.'
`Undoubtedly,' Tweed agreed. 'Cyanosis was pretty obvious. Her whole face was beginning to turn blue.'
'I was also wondering how the murder was achieved. In a busy airport you can't really produce a hypodermic needle and jab it into somebody. The location was too public.'
`What solution have you arrived at, then?'
`A hypodermic needle disguised as something else. Something very ordinary which no one would think odd a woman holding it in her hand.'
`Sound thinking. The same thought crossed my mind.' `What about Dr Rabin?' Paula asked. 'Has he told you anything?'
`You know what pathologists are. Won't commit themselves until they've gone through the whole process. He said he would have information for me by the time I got back to London.'
`That place we stopped at was Leuven, I noticed.'
`Which means a Flemish enclave,' Tweed commented. `Benoit said Louvain, the French – or Walloon-version. It's a real mix-up, is Belgium – which is why the road signs in Brussels are always first in French, then in Flemish. I think we're coming in to Liege.'
`Looks pretty grim,' Paula observed, peering out of the window. 'Can't really see it yet. Just those peculiar hills shaped like mounds. Funny they're all so rounded. They don't look like proper hills.'
`They aren't. Liege was once a great coal-mining centre. They just dumped the coal dust in great slag-heaps on the edge of the city. Not a very tidy lot out here. You'll see the colour of the buildings – coal black from the dust blown down into the city. Prepare not to enjoy yourself.'
The stench of Liege hit Paula as they walked out of the modern station. A revolting smell of greasy food from hot-dog stalls. The street was littered with stained food cartons carelessly thrown down. The brick buildings opposite were soiled with black dirt – the coal dust Tweed had referred to, she assumed.
Waiting cab drivers, wearing shabby clothes, pestered them for a fare. Their complexions were an unpleasant olive colour and several leered at Paula's legs. So this was Liege…'
Paula stared. On the opposite side of the cobbled street a red Mercedes was parked. Newman stood beside it and beckoned them over. Paula picked her way among the mess of discarded cartons.
`I didn't come over,' Newman explained. 'This is the sort of place where you stay by your car unless you want to lose a wheel, windscreen wipers, the lot. And I have found out the route to Herstal. It's not far. I have marked it on a map, so you can be navigator, Paula.'
`How did you find it?' she asked, studying the map when she'd slipped into the back seat.
`Cost me two thousand francs. These cabbies don't give you the time of day for nothing. This is Money-Grubber Town. Watch your shoulder-bag.'
`Let's get moving,' Tweed urged. 'Any sign of Benoit?' `He's inside that unmarked car on the corner. Arrived about fifteen minutes after me. Relax…'
He was driving down a narrow street walled in by more soot-soiled buildings. It started badly, it became worse.
The gutters were littered with crushed drink cans, with screwed-up paper. The few locals slouching along the dimly lit street were clothed to match their surroundings. The interior of the Mercedes was polluted with the smell of stale food. Newman opened a window wide.
`Don't imagine you appreciate the Liege atmosphere. So a breath of partly fresh air should clear it in a minute. Just relax…'
`Relaxing is the last thing I have on my mind,' Tweed snapped. 'I want us to get to Delvaux in time. Assuming we are in time. Benoit isn't going to form up a cavalcade behind us, I trust?'
`He has three cars packed to the gunwales with armed men. And he's promised me not to come within a quarter of a mile of the chateau. Reluctantly. Ladies and gentlemen,' Newman went on in a lighter vein, 'we have just arrived at the great River Meuse..
It was dark as he drove alongside the major waterway for barges and other traffic, the river from distant Dinant in the south, which progressed via Namur and Liege to become the Maas in Holland before it finally reached the North Sea.
Tweed peered out of the window. Street lamps provided better illumination here. The wide river down below with massive concrete embankments like fortress walls. The water was a muddy colour. Paula touched Tweed's arm.
`Look at those apartment blocks on the opposite bank. They're modern – but even they are hideous.'
Tweed nodded. The apartment blocks were painted in a variety of primary colours, all an offence to the eye. They gave the curious impression they were built of plastic. Newman called out again.
`Now for Herstal. It's roughly north-west of Liege, as you'll see from the map. Not far now.'
Tweed hardly heard him. He was staring out of the window. There was a large yacht basin, a branch of the river closed in by a low wall. Again the element of water and various craft. As at Lymington and Buckler's Hard.
Headlights undimmed, the woman behind the wheel of the black Mercedes raced through the night, blaring her horn frequently to blast other motorists out of her way. Belgian drivers swore as she overtook them, made rude gestures she never noticed. Her whole mind was concentrated on reaching her destination, and God help anyone who got in her way.
It wasn't easy to identify her as a woman. She was wearing a crash helmet, goggles, her leather jacket turned up at the collar. Her gloved hands rested lightly on the wheel. As always, she was perfectly in control of the situation.
; A large truck edged out on to the motorway. She pressed her hand on the horn non-stop, increased speed. The truck driver used foul language as he jammed on his air-brakes. Then the black projectile was past him, its red lights disappearing in the distance.
`Crazy bastard!' the truck driver said to himself.
The black Mercedes, with a taxi sign, raced on and on. Its tyres screeched as she swung round a bend, never slackening for a second. Her hand was on the horn again as she overtook more vehicles, several shaking in the slipstream of her fantastic speed.
She checked a road sign, glanced at the dashboard clock, rammed her foot down another inch. The Mercedes was practically flying, seemed about to take off at any moment. She drove on, ruthlessly forcing other traffic to give way.
Her destination: Herstal.
18
`That must be his armaments factory,' Newman commented. 'I thought Delvaux had gone out of business.'
`So did I,' Tweed replied from the back of the Mercedes.
They had reached Herstal. Tweed peered out of the window at a modern single-storey factory complex of white buildings close to the edge of the Meuse. Across the road from the plant was a large landing stage with two huge barges berthed.
A searchlight perched high on top of the main building was switched on. The spotlight of the beam hit the road ahead of Newman, moved swiftly towards him. Just in time he lowered the visor, half-closed his eyes. The glare of the spotlight focused on the car, paused, followed it for several seconds.
`Bloody traffic hazard,' Newman growled.
`Their security is extraordinary,' Tweed observed.
The factory was surrounded with a high wire fence he suspected was electrified. Behind the fence uniformed guards patrolled, holding Alsatians straining at their leashes. Even above the sound of the engine he could hear their fierce barking. The walls of the buildings had no windows but in the sloping roofs were large fanlights and from these powerful lights glowed in the night. A door opened, a fork-lift truck piled high with crates was driven inside, the door closed. A huge sign proclaimed Delvaux SA – with no indication that this was an armaments factory.
`I don't understand it,' Paula said. 'They're working full blast at this time of night.'
`Another mystery,' Tweed remarked.
`You turn off soon now,' Paula called out. 'A curving road to the right, according to the map. Just beyond this bend in the river.'
`Here, I'd say,' Newman replied. 'Yes. See that sign – Chateau Orange? This is Delvaux's place.'
`Bob!' Tweed spoke quickly. 'Look out for somewhere to park the car out of sight of the entrance to the chateau. But we're all going in together…'
The headlights were sweeping round bends as the Mercedes climbed a hill. On both sides were dense woods and wide grass verges. The headlights shone on open entrance gates. Newman drove slowly, edged the car along a track. It turned almost immediately in a clearing. He swung the car round ready for a swift departure, switched off the engine, opened his trench coat so he could reach his gun swiftly. He locked the car and they hurried back.
The gravel drive beyond the entrance gates bore evidence of neglect. Weeds sprouted through the gravel. Which didn't seem like Delvaux, a tidy man. Tweed paused in the middle of the tarred road. Just above the entrance the road curved again round a sharp bend. The silence created a brooding atmosphere, despite the light of a moon.
`What is it?' Paula whispered.
`Listening for the sound of cars. Looks as though Benoit has kept his word. I couldn't see any trace that we were being followed through the rear window.' He took a deep breath. 'Let's get on with it.'
Tweed walked with Paula alongside him while Newman came up behind them, the Smith amp; Wesson held by his side. Hemmed in by overgrown shrubberies, the drive had a creepy feel, and Paula's right hand was tucked inside her shoulder-bag, gripping the Browning. Their feet crunched on the gravel, advertising their approach.
The large three-storey chateau came into view suddenly. It had a mansard roof with circular dormer windows in the roof. A wide flight of steps led up to the main entrance, a pair of double doors. There were lights in the ground-floor windows.
`What a beautiful place,' Paula enthused.
`Must have cost a few million-'
Newman broke off as a small bare-headed man of slight build and small stature appeared round the side of the chateau. Tweed immediately recognized him as Gaston Delvaux. The night air was cold and there was frost on the shrubs, but the Belgian wore no coat over his dark business suit.
As he came forward Paula was struck by the impression of cleverness – even brilliance – he made on her. Clean shaven, his head was large, his hair grey, and his forehead bulged. He reminded her of a large elf. Newman slipped his gun behind his back, tucked it down inside his trench-coat belt.
Tweed was shocked by Delvaux's slow movements: normally he was so nimble. His face was drawn and he looked hollow eyed. Only his voice seemed normal as he greeted Tweed in English.
`The last person on God's earth I expected to see here. Would you mind if we wandered outside round the back?'
Tweed felt he was witnessing a repeat performance, experiencing the same nightmare of Andover at Prevent. His reaction was strengthened as Delvaux lowered his voice.
`There are listening devices all over the chateau. We shall not be overheard in the garden.'
Paula reacted quickly, after Tweed had made brief introductions.
`Mr Delvaux, could I possibly go inside to your loo?'
`Of course, Miss Grey.' Delvaux paused. 'It is rather a large house. No one else is inside, so do not feel afraid…'
Taking a set of keys from his pockets, he climbed slowly up the steps. At one time, Tweed thought, you'd have run up them. Selecting two keys, the Belgian unlocked the right-hand door, opened it, stood aside.
`You go across the hall. On the left you will see a door with S'il vows plait on a metal plate. Then perhaps you will join us in the garden.'
`Thank you…'
Paula walked slowly across the marble-floored hall. It was illuminated by a huge chandelier suspended way above her head. She paused, looked back, listened. Delvaux would now be well away from her.
Ignoring the door with the plate, she walked on to the rear of the hall where a door was half open, the room beyond lit by fluorescent strips. As she had hoped, it was the kitchen. A beautiful wood-block floor, all the latest equipment, including a de luxe island unit. She was relieved to see the curtains were closed.
Beyond the island unit was another door with a large frosted-glass panel. She opened it quietly. Again she had guessed right. It was the utility room – also equipped with the latest gadgets. Including a huge freezer.
This was what she had been looking for. She sucked in a deep breath as she approached it. Standing gazing down at the closed lid, she gritted her teeth, steeled herself. She was feeling very tired. Already it had been a long day. Get on with it, she told herself.
Stopping, she grasped the lid, lifted it back in one swift motion. Even though she was expecting something like this, the shock was still great. The freezer was packed with food. Motionless she stared at the plastic carton full of ice laid along the top of the food. It was smaller than the carton in Andover's freezer – because what it contained was smaller. The severed hand of a woman, amputated at the wrist, where it was covered with a bandage stained with blood.
She knew it was a woman's hand. The slim fingers suggested a woman. But what confirmed it was a woman's hand – a left hand – were the two rings on the third finger. A ruby engagement ring, a gold wedding ring. The final obscenity was a single wilted rose which had been placed between the fingers.
`You bastards!'
Paula's lips formed the words soundlessly. She had not forgotten the listening devices. She closed the lid, walked slowly towards the front entrance.
When Paula had gone inside the chateau Delvaux had led the way along a footpath beside the building to the grounds at the
rear. Newman, following Tweed, almost gasped at what he saw.
Illuminated by lanterns, spaced out at intervals, the estate was laid out like a miniature Versailles. A vast lawn, heavily coated with glistening frost, was criss-crossed with paved walks. Beautiful stone urns were perched on shapely plinths. In the shadows decorative conifers – expensive specimen trees – rose up like small exclamation marks. In the distance a coloured fountain spurted vertically, falling back into a round walled lake.
`I used to love this,' Delvaux commented as he stood on a terrace running the length of the back of the chateau. `Why have you come, Tweed?'
Newman, standing with the gun by his side hidden from Delvaux, was staring at the shadow of a man. He stood quite motionless, in the darkness close to the wall of tall evergreens shielding the estate.
`There's someone hiding over there,' he interjected. `Do not worry,' Delvaux assured him. 'He is a friend.
Why have you come, Tweed?' he repeated.
`Because I've found out what happened to Sir Gerald Andover.'
There was silence for several long minutes. Delvaux's hands began to tremble. He hastily shoved them inside his jacket pockets. Before he could answer Paula walked on to the terrace. She looked at Tweed, jerked her head towards the chateau.
`The same situation as at Prevent,' she whispered as she stood closer to him. She extended her left hand, made a chopping motion with her right on her other wrist. 'The freezer again.'
`What have you been doing inside my house?' Delvaux demanded in a high-pitched voice. He had moved near enough to catch her last three words. 'What have you found?' he screeched, his facial muscles working.
Over Paula's arm were folded some clothes she had found inside a cupboard in the hall. She turned to face the Belgian. Just before she turned round Tweed nodded to her and she knew he wanted her to talk.
`Your coat and a scarf, Mr Delvaux,' she replied. She helped him on with the coat, wrapped his scarf round his neck. 'You'll catch your death out here in this temperature.'