by Colin Forbes
`Her,' the younger man, Marc, corrected.
`Why do you think it was a woman?' Tweed enquired.
`All the vehicle's windows were closed when we found it. And, incidentally, there are traces in the boot suggesting the body spent some time in there.'
`So why would it be moved?' Tweed pressed.
`We think we know,' Armand intervened. 'While it was being driven – to Liege, you suggested – the body would have to be concealed. But when the killer left the Mercedes in the Marolles some yobbo could quite easily have jemmied the boot open, hoping to find something worth taking. The body was jammed down inside the rear of the car. It was dark. So unless the door was opened it would appear empty.'
`And why do you think it was a woman?' Tweed persisted, turning to Marc.
`As I told Chief Inspector Benoit when he came to see us just before you visited the morgue, I am a non-smoker. I have an acute sense of smell. When I opened the rear door of the cab I immediately caught the aroma of a perfume – Guerlain Samsara.'
`And just how were you able to identify that particular perfume?' Tweed asked sceptically.
He was standing very erect, both hands shoved inside his coat pockets, staring straight at Marc. He suddenly realized his stance was exactly the same he'd adopted when interrogating a suspect at the Yard. Old habits died hard.
`Because,' Marc explained, 'I'd had a win at the casino in Ostend. I used some of my money to buy my girl friend a bottle of Guerlain Samsara. I should know that perfume now.'
`The cab driver could have picked up a previous passenger, a woman, before he encountered the murderer,' Tweed probed.
`I think not, sir. Samsara is a subtle perfume – expensive. Any woman passenger earlier would have opened the door to get out. She swings her legs out first – I have often observed this – and then she climbs out of the cab. With the door open even that amount of time the aroma would have gone.'
`I'm convinced. Thank you, Marc. In due course you will undoubtedly be promoted. You use your eyes as well as your nose.' He turned to Benoit. 'I think that is all. Except for that matter about the priority for Dr Leclerc.'
`Which I will tell him as soon as I have seen you off the premises. You would like an unmarked police car to take you to the Hilton?'
`I can drive them there,' Newman said.
Tweed shook hands with Benoit. It was the custom in Belgium: when you met, when you departed, and on any other occasion when the opportunity presented itself.
`Now all we need,' Newman said when the bags had been transferred to his boot, 'is a woman who uses Guerlain Samsara.'
The first people Tweed noticed on entering the Hilton were Burgoyne, Lee Holmes, Fanshawe, and Helen Claybourne playing a game of cards. He wondered how Lee had travelled to Brussels.
`We want three executive rooms for two days,' he told the girl receptionist behind the counter. 'I believe there is a special reservation room for those on the twentieth floor.'
`No longer, sir. We do have the rooms but you register here. Chief Inspector Benoit phoned us.'
She asked for a credit card but Tweed paid in cash for the three rooms in advance: you can track a man's movements by tracing credit-card transactions, if you know how. Tweed, still clutching the executive case containing Delvaux's new radar system, then asked for a safety-deposit box.
The girl guided him round a corner at the end of the reception counter, pressed a button inside, let him into a glass cubicle. He closed the outer door, she opened the inner door and led him to the deposit room.
`For that case you will need our largest box…'
Attaching the key to his ring, Tweed thanked her, went outside where Paula and Newman were waiting. Paula came close, whispered.
`You've seen who is in the lounge area?'
`Yes. I think we should make their acquaintance later. What about dinner?'
`I'm beyond it. Ham sandwiches and coffee is all I can cope with.'
`Me too,' said Newman.
`Agreed. We're all on the twentieth floor. We'll meet by the lift up there. When, Paula?'
`I'm going to treat myself to a five-minute shower. A bath is too much effort…' They walked inside one of the elevators, the doors closed, the ascent began. 'I will be ready in ten minutes,' Paula decided. 'Time me…'
Tweed found he had Room 2009, a spacious room the size of a suite. After a swift wash and change of underclothes, he switched off the lights, peered out behind the closed curtains. The view was panoramic – the enormous green dome surmounting the Palace of Justice seemed near enough to reach out and touch. A building larger than St Peter's in Rome. And Marolles is down there, he was thinking – where the murdered cab driver had been found. So close to the Hilton.
In his suite at the Bellevue Palace Dr Wand was working late. When the phone rang the chauffeur answered, handed him the instrument.
`Someone called Vulcan wishes to speak to you.'
`Yes,' Wand opened the conversation. 'You recognize my voice. What is it, please?'
Wand always kept his communications with Vulcan short. It was so important to keep his caller's identity secret.
`I thought you should know,' the voice said in English, `that the Hilton has three new visitors. Your good friend Tweed, Paula Grey, and Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent. Just in case you wished to have cocktails with them sometime.'
`Thank you so much for your call. I will think about it.'
Wand put down the phone. Vulcan had phrased the information carefully. Any switchboard operator listening in would not understand the implications.
Wand pursed his lips and did not smile. Watching him furtively, the chauffeur knew he was disturbed. And he was right.
Wand sat thinking, tapping a slow tattoo with his gold pencil. Tweed first in Liege and now in Brussels. He is coming too close, he thought. He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory, a Brussels number. A woman with a working-class voice answered and Wand asked to speak to Dr Hyde.
`Hyde speaking. Who is this?' The voice was hoarse, and spoke in English. 'I said who is this?' Hyde repeated.
`You know who I am, my friend,' Wand replied. 'I think it might be wise if you moved to a hotel in Liege. It is possible you could have a patient requiring treatment. Either in Belgium or Germany. In the near future. Goodnight..
Handing the receiver to the chauffeur, Wand took out his slim notebook. He turned to the last page where he had noted down in pencil – easy to erase – twenty-five names. They comprised the elite of Western Europe – and there were few politicians. These were the men – and women – Wand feared might detect the plan. Operation Long Reach.
The first three names were Andover, Delvaux, Westendorf. He drew a line through Andover. Dealt with. He paused, his pencil poised. Then he inserted a fresh name after Westendorf. Tweed. Alongside the name he put a question mark. It was a little early to be sure whether Tweed should be subjected to treatment.
Brussels has three main stations, running roughly from east to west – towards the sea. Midi, Centrale and Nord The undistinguished Hotel Hermitage was situated in a small side-street near Centrale station – not the most upper-crust section of Brussels.
Dr Carberry-Hyde – to give him his full name – was packing his case after receiving the phone call. A tall, heavily built man in his fifties, he had a permanent stoop from bending over patients' beds. He had a large head, a hooked nose, thinning grey hair above a tall forehead. Clean shaven, he possessed a perfect set of teeth which he often showed when he smiled at nervous patients. It was not a sincere smile and never reached the eyes behind rimless glasses: he assumed it for his bedside manner.
Dr Hyde wondered whether Liege would offer him the same facilities for relaxation as Brussels: he doubted it. He had recently returned from a certain street where the company of an attractive girl could be obtained for money – rather a lot of money.
He opened a smaller case. Neatly arranged inside were his surgical instruments. He picked up a scalpel an
d lovingly polished it. Dr Hyde was a man who enjoyed his work.
22
Tweed, Paula, and Newman walked out of the elevator on the ground floor and headed straight for the poker- playing quartet. Burgoyne was just sitting down again in his chair. Tweed, threading his way between tables, caught his words.
`Sorry about the interruption. Could do without business calls at this hour. In any case, the game is over. Lee has cleaned us out.'
In front of Lee was the hand she'd displayed. A Royal Flush. Fanshawe jumped up, insisted that Paula took his chair. He began talking non-stop.
`What a coincidence. And what a pleasant one. Delighted to have your company. No, I'll get more chairs for our welcome guests. Yes, amazing coincidence. Last time it was the New Forest. Who'd have thought we'd have the pleasure of your company here in Brussels? Tweed, you sit here next to Lee. Rich woman. So just your cup of tea. You two will get on famously…'
Newman was helping Willie to bring more chairs. Tweed noticed Burgoyne hadn't stirred a muscle to give a hand. He introduced Newman to the party. Burgoyne then reacted with a barbed comment.
`The notorious foreign correspondent. Everyone will have to watch their words. We'll find ourselves reported in the national press.'
`I'm taking that as a joke.' Newman leaned forward towards the Brigadier. 'In case you hadn't heard, I retired.'
`So would I,' the Brigadier retorted, 'if I'd made the fortune you did out of that sensational bestseller you wrote. What was it now? Kruger: The Computer That Failed. Read it. Not bad. Must have made you a millionaire.'
`It depends on which currency you're talking about,' Newman countered.
`Why don't you two stop fencing and enjoy yourselves?' Lee remonstrated. 'This is supposed to be a fun party.'
`Then let's have some more to drink,' Burgoyne decided. 'More champagne?'
`Perfect,' Lee agreed. 'I have something to celebrate.'
`Then you ought to pay,' Burgoyne growled. He summoned a waiter with a beckoning gesture of his index finger. Just like summoning some poor squaddie in the officers' mess, Tweed thought. 'Two more bottles of Krug – same as last time,' Burgoyne specified.
Tweed took the opportunity to order ham sandwiches for three. And a glass of white wine for himself. He wanted a clear head for this gathering.
Paula was watching Lee. She had a pile of Belgian-franc notes in front of her. Methodically, she was sorting them into a neat pile. That girl likes money, Paula was thinking: there was an aura of pure delight in the way Lee handled the money, a considerable amount. She moved her chair closer to Tweed's, rested her bare arm against his sleeve. She turned to face him with a glowing smile.
`I'm paying for your order. Now, no argument. And when you've eaten please join me in a cognac.'
`Let's see how I feel later. It's a bit stuffy in here.' `Then if you feel like a breath of fresh air later I'll be glad to join you for a walk. To the Copenhagen Tavern.' `We might do that,' Tweed agreed amiably.
She was pressing her arm against his and he could feel the warmth of her body through his suit. Helen Claybourne had stood up, was collecting the cards, shuffling them into a pack. She paused next to Lee, bent down and picked something off her right shoe.
`A few bits of undergrowth and pine needles,' Lee remarked. 'Which I must have collected when I had a stroll in the Parc d'Egmont behind the hotel.' She looked at Tweed. 'That was before dinner with Willie at the Cafe d'Egmont. It's high-class coffee house, but the food is good.'
`It's better at the Baron de Boeuf on the first floor,' said Burgoyne. 'That's where you get a first-class meal.'
`At first-class prices,' Willie commented. Newman was reminded of a doleful St Bernard. 'Still,' Willie brightened up, 'we're all having one helluva time. I like nothing better than good company, good food. What else is there in the world?'
`Hard work.' The Brigadier grunted, tasted the Krug the waiter had poured. 'That'll do.'
Paula had her first chance to look at the shoes Lee was wearing. Sensible walking shoes. Which didn't go at all with the glamorous purple off-the-shoulder outfit.
Newman had moved his chair so he sat close to Helen Claybourne. Lee had blood-red nail-varnished fingernails, a colour he disliked intensely. Looked as though she'd dipped her fingers in blood. As a contrast, Helen's slim strong-looking fingers were varnished a pale pink. She turned to him and her grey eyes held his unblinking.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lee stroking back her blonde mane so she could see Tweed clearly. Again a contrast: Helen sat quite still, her hands clasped in her lap, still staring at him with the hint of a smile.
`Are you enjoying all this?' he asked her quietly.
`I am now. I've read quite a bit about you in magazine profiles. I'd imagine you're a very resourceful man – someone a woman could depend on in an emergency. Which is more than you can say for most men nowadays.'
With any other woman it would have sounded like flattery. But Helen made it sound like a simple statement she believed. They clinked glasses and she gave him her half-smile again.
I'm not doing very well tonight, Paula thought. Lee appears to have Tweed in the palm of her hand. Newman can't take his eyes off Helen. I must be losing my touch. Willie seemed to sense her feeling of isolation. Turning to her, he clinked his glass with hers, beaming at her.
`You must have had the appetite of a lady who hasn't eaten for weeks. The way you devoured those sandwiches. I know a rather nice little restaurant just up the boulevard. The Copenhagen Tavern. It has a bar. Why don't we go up there, get away from this lot?'
`I'd love to – and thank you, Willie. But it's been a long day. Maybe tomorrow..
She was watching Lee who had twisted round in her chair. She was straightening Tweed's tie. Willie glanced in the same direction, then went on chatting.
`Tell you what. There are some pretty good exhibitions on at the moment. Helen,' he called out, 'hope I'm not interrupting. I wonder if you could find out all the exhibitions on in town early tomorrow, give me a list?'
Helen produced a notebook from her handbag. Newman kept quiet as she produced her expensive fountain-pen, took off the top, make a note.
`Consider it done,' she assured Willie.
`That's a nice pen,' Newman remarked. fountain-pens are coming back into fashion. And it suits your neat handwriting.'
Pile it on, Bob, Paula thought. Helen was playing with the fat pen, made a movement as though to show it to Newman, then dropped it back inside her bag.
`It was a present from my favourite uncle. I guard it with my life…'
Tweed seemed totally absorbed by Lee. She took out her jewelled cigarette holder, inserted a cigarette, and put the holder between her lips. She made no attempt to light it and Tweed, a non-smoker, produced the lighter he always carried. Igniting it, he leant forward. Lee snatched the holder out of her mouth away from him.
`Sorry. I'm giving up smoking. I do this as a test of will power. So far I haven't lit a cigarette for over four weeks.'
`Damn silly idea,' Burgoyne commented. 'Just don't buy any cigarettes. These pseudo-psychological methods never work. I suppose that crank doctor you consulted suggested it.'
`Maurice,' Lee said sweetly, 'why don't you mind your own damned business?'
`And are you here on business, Brigadier?' Tweed asked, seizing on the opening.
`Yes. What about you?' Burgoyne barked.
`The answer is yes,' Tweed said slowly. 'In my capacity as Chief Claims Investigator for my insurance company. I am actually investigating a particularly grim kidnapping.'
Was it his imagination or had a sudden hush descended on the party? Paula, who had pushed her chair back, was in a better position to see everyone. She could have sworn someone froze for a second. The trouble was she couldn't identify who it was.
`Anyone we know?' Burgoyne asked eventually.
`I would assume probably not,' Tweed replied in the same slow tone. 'And I am close to my target.'
`I'm
going to bed,' the Brigadier announced abruptly, and stood up. 'The rest of you can chatter the night hours away.'
On this polite note he left them. Lee insisted that she and Tweed walked up the boulevard to the Copenhagen Tavern. Willie turned to Paula as Lee went to fetch a coat.
`Now you are going to join me for a nightcap. We can get one just up the street at Les Arcades. You'll like it. Quite atmospheric. Be a devil, say yes.'
`I'll get my own coat,' Paula agreed immediately. At least someone was showing interest in her. 'Won't be a tick…'
Helen waited until she was alone with Newman before she made the suggestion. Facing him, she fiddled with a brooch under her mandarin collar, her grey eyes staring straight into his.
`If you feel like it, we could slip into the bar over there and have a quiet drink and a chat. Get to know each other better.'
`Then why are we still sitting here?' Newman asked, and gave her a warm smile.
Tweed didn't let on to Lee that he was familiar with the Copenhagen Tavern. At that time of night there were only a few customers – some finishing a meal, others sitting over drinks.
A spacious establishment, it had an intimate atmosphere – largely created by the fact that the walls were lined with brown cloth, combined with subdued lighting from brass wall sconces supporting brown shades.
Tweed guided Lee to the back of the split-level room, avoiding the steps leading up to a large alcove on the right. He chose one of three empty tables at the back of the room with brown banquettes against the wall. Lee slipped round the table on to the banquette, tapped the space beside her. Tweed took off his coat, walked round the other end, perched the coat on the banquette between Lee and where he sat. She stripped off her coat, folded it carefully, placed it on top of his and pushed the pile towards him. Then she eased herself closer.
To his surprise she ordered a glass of dry French white wine when the waitress came and he followed suit.
`I'm floating in champagne,' she confessed in a husky voice. 'God! The Brigadier is a pain in the proverbial.'