By Stealth tac-9

by Colin Forbes

  `Because a prominent man has been kidnapped. And I am negotiating his release,' Tweed lied.

  There was a long silence. Dr Wand shifted restlessly in his chair. He adjusted his pince-nez. Suddenly his manner changed, became amiable.

  `And you are near success in your difficult undertaking, I trust?'

  `Oh yes. Vital information has come to light. At the moment you might say we are closing in on our target. There are certain people in Brussels and I wonder why they are here. I think I may have found out why.'

  Another pause. Newman, the unlit cigarette still clamped between his lips, was fiddling with his throwaway lighter under cover of the desk. He was using his tough thumb-nail to revolve the wheel controlling the power of the gas, converting it into a miniature flame-thrower.

  `Then may I wish you good health, Mr Tweed. And also success in your – I am sure – most difficult task. One wrong move and, I suppose, the whole thing could blow up in your face.' The voice became so soft Tweed only just caught the words. 'That would be a tragedy for you – and for all those involved.'

  Newman chose that moment to lean forward, to flick the wheel of his lighter. A large flame speared up, he held it steady while he touched the tip of his cigarette, then he released the wheel and the scorching flame died. In those few seconds both men had a photo-flash image of Dr Wand. He threw up a hand to shield his face, but not before they had seen him.

  Tweed caught an expression of satanic fury. The eyes glared savagely. Wand had prominent cheekbones, a nose like the prow of a ship, and swiftly he smiled, which was not a pleasant sight, his thin lips twisted in a smile like Siberia. He rose behind his desk, now back in the shadows.

  `Mr Tweed, I wish to express to you my deep gratitude for spending a little of your undoubtedly precious time in travelling all the way from Brussels to see me. As I expected, I have found our conversation stimulating and illuminating. You appear to be engaged in a most dangerous occupation. Let us hope you survive for many more years.'

  `I expect to do just that,' Tweed replied tersely.

  Dr Wand must have pressed a button. The door opened and the butler appeared, holding the handle and standing erect as he gazed straight ahead. Wand ignored Newman, made no further reference to him, and again he made no attempt to shake hands in the Belgian fashion.

  Escorting them across the hall, the butler opened a small metal casing attached to the wall. He frowned.

  `The gates do not appear to have closed properly.' `Well, just make sure you open them properly,' Newman suggested jovially.

  When they drove away down the drive the gates were wide open. Newman stopped in the road, ran back, replaced the stone by the garden border, returned to the car, and headed back for Brussels.

  Inside his study Dr Wand sat in the gloom, his hands clasped in his lap. He sat quite motionless, thinking at top speed. When the phone rang he reached for the receiver automatically, half his mind thousands of miles away.

  `Yes?'

  `This is Anne-Marie,' a woman's voice said, as always using her code-name. 'I am speaking from a call box.'

  `A most wise precaution, I am sure. You have some news for me?'

  `Yes. From a fairly brief observation of Miss Grey and her employer I would say they are very close to each other.'

  `You believe that she is his mistress?'

  `No. I don't think it's that kind of a relationship. I do think he is very fond of her, that he regards her as invaluable as well as a friend.'

  `I find that interesting, most interesting indeed. A man may discard a mistress without a qualm, but pure friendship goes deeper. Continue, if you would be so kind, to communicate with me regularly. Goodbye…'

  The phone call decided Wand to take certain action he had only been contemplating. Earlier Dr Hyde had called him from Liege, giving him the name of his hotel, its phone number and his room number. Wand dialled the number of the Liege hotel, asked to be put through to Dr Hyde.

  `Who is this calling?' the soothing voice of Dr Hyde enquired cautiously.

  `Your patron is calling you…' The use of this word amused Wand: Dr Hyde was a loyal servant only because he was paid so well. 'You recognize my voice?'

  `Indeed I do. How may I be of service?'

  `There may well be another patient requiring treatment at your hands. A woman. There may be a delay. It is a question of securing her availability. I will call you when the time is right. In the mean time I suggest you remain where you are. You can always sample the delights of Liege…'

  `Dr Wand is an even more evil character than he appears in the photos Marler took of him,' Newman remarked as he parked in front of the Hilton.

  `That trick of yours with the lighter was clever,' Tweed replied. 'And I agree with you. Some villains are difficult to detect – they have the charm of the devil. But in that brief moment when your lighter flared I had the impression we were in the presence of the Devil himself. A man capable of ordering the bizarre and horrific treatment of Irene Andover. To say nothing of arranging for the Liege assassin to drive down poor Andover.'

  `Whom he referred to as a crackpot,' Newman recalled.

  `And that was a tactical error. An unusual mistake for Dr Wand to make, I'd guess. His object was to discredit Andover's global theories. Why? Because they are true, I suspect,' he remarked as they stepped into the elevator.

  `You went overboard yourself a bit when you talked of us closing in on our target.'

  `Deliberately. I wanted to disturb him. I think that I succeeded. A disturbed man can make a fatal blunder.'

  `You talked a moment ago about the horrific treatment of Irene Andover,' Newman reminded him. 'You really think a top-flight doctor is involved – the amputations I'm thinking of. Irene's severed arm. Lucie Delvaux's severed hand. Sheer cold-blooded butchery.'

  `I'll know whether it took a skilled surgeon after I've seen Dr Rabin in London.' He checked his watch. 'I'll just have time to pick up my packed bag and the radar device from the deposit box.' They entered Room 2009.

  `And both Butler and Nield are going back with you?'

  `No. A change of plan. You are in charge while I'm away. Harry Butler will accompany me back to London. But Pete Nield will stay in Brussels. He has a special job to do. Give him this instruction from me. He is to guard Paula night and day – and I do mean guard. He must never let her out of his sight. Warn Marler, too…'

  He had just spoken when there was a tap on the door. Newman opened it and Marler walked in with Paula.

  `I've got five minutes,' Tweed told them.

  Marler gave him a terse report of their locating the colony of new houses outside Ghent. Tweed looked grim as he picked up his case.

  `The Mongols infiltrated spies ahead of their armies. It looks as though Wand's apparatus is already widespread. We may well move fast when I get back from London.'

  26

  Landing at London Airport, Tweed made a brief call to Dr Rabin after passing through Passport Control and Customs. No one asked to see inside the large executive case he was carrying.

  Butler waited close to the phone Tweed made his call from. He thought Tweed looked relieved when he joined him after completing the call. Taciturn by nature, Butler made no enquiry as they hurried out to locate the car Tweed had phoned for from the Hilton.

  `A good trip, sir?'

  It was George, one of the ex-Army men who acted as guards at Park Crescent. Tweed nodded and George led them to the car parked in the short-term garage. Climbing into the back, Tweed gave George an address in Harley Street. Dr Rabin, a widower, had kept on the rooms he had used as a general consultant before specializing in pathology.

  After the bustle and shabbiness of Brussels Tweed found it a relief to get out into the peace and quiet of Harley Street with its solid buildings. Butler sat in the waiting room, hugging the executive case with the rest of their luggage by his side.

  `I have the results of my examination,' Rabin informed Tweed briskly. 'Something very strange here.'


  They were sitting in a cheerfully furnished living- room, facing each other in armchairs across a low table. On the table was a silver tray with a Spode tea-set which had been laid by a neatly dressed housekeeper.

  Rabin was a short, stocky man in his late fifties. He had a large round head, white hair, a trim white moustache, and wore a blue business suit. His crisp manner always reminded Tweed of that out-moded phrase, an officer and a gentleman – without a trace of snobbery.

  `Strange?' Tweed queried, revelling in the tea he was sipping. 'In what way?'

  `Let's take the girl first. The severed arm was amputated by an exceptionally skilled professional surgeon. No doubt about it. This was further confirmed when I examined the body. She was killed, by the way, with an injection of potassium cyanide. The hypodermic was thrust into the upper arm through her clothing. Nothing professional about that.'

  `That is why you used the word strange?'

  `Partly. So two different people were involved. A surgeon who carried out the amputation – and someone else who killed her.'

  `Do you mind if I phone Brussels? We may have a similar case there.'

  `By all means…'

  Tweed checked his notebook, dialled police headquarters, asked to talk to Chief Inspector Benoit, speaking in French. Benoit came on the line very quickly.

  `Lucie Delvaux,' Tweed said. 'Have you any opinion on how her hand was taken off?'

  `Pathologist's report just came through to me over the phone. They have a nice way of putting things, these chaps. He said the amputation of the hand was a really beautiful job. Must have been executed by a top surgeon. Plus a lot of technical data you won't want.'

  `Thank you, Benoit. How is everything in Brussels?'

  `A close but very discreet watch being kept on Delvaux. Even he isn't aware of it. No developments so far. I will keep in touch…'

  Tweed put down the phone, offered to pay for the call, but Rabin waved the idea aside. He listened as Tweed repeated the gist of his conversation with Benoit.

  `I see,' he said slowly. 'This is all rather disturbing.'

  `The point is,' Tweed said quietly, 'do you know of a surgeon who could have done this? Someone brilliant but possibly struck off the Register for conduct unbecoming, etc.?'

  Rabin's ruddy complexion seemed to grow a little redder. Tweed saw him glance at a framed photograph on the wall. The photograph showed a group of men gathered together in apparently exotic surroundings. Rabin's tone became a little sharper.

  Then you had the body of Harvey Boyd sent to me. I've also completed that examination. Quite a different kettle of fish from Irene Andover – but again strange.'

  `Strange in what way?' Tweed queried for the second time.

  Rabin's mind seemed now to be only half on what he was saying.

  `Well, first there can be no question at all that this was a professional amputation. Nothing of the sort. But I am puzzled. The side of the head, as you know, was fairly cleanly sliced away. Note I used the word fairly.'

  `Sliced away by what?' Tweed pressed.

  `Ah! that is the point. According to what you told me on the phone Boyd was in a small powerboat when he died. A boat in motion on the River Lymington when there was a dense fog. So the obvious assumption is another far larger and more powerful vessel sank him. But the portion of the head removed was taken off so cleanly. I am further puzzled when I tell you I found in the skull minute fragments of what I imagine was the wreckage of his powerboat at the time of the collision.'

  `So why are you puzzled?'

  `Because the normal hull of a larger vessel would have smashed up his skull far more brutally. That's all I can say.'

  `You could tell hie about the surgeon capable of amputating Irene Andover's arm with such skill.'

  Rabin cleared his throat. 'Now we are in the realm of professional ethics. My lips are sealed.'

  Tweed put down his cup carefully. He stood up, reached for his Burberry placed over the arm of a chair, put it on slowly, then stood erect, hands shoved inside his coat pockets. Rabin, thinking he was leaving, looking uncomfortable, also stood up. Tweed braced himself, stared hard at his host.

  `Then you'll have to unseal your lips, won't you? Throw so-called medical ethics to the winds.' His voice was cold and grim. 'Now you listen to me. There have been two cases so far of eminent men having close relatives kidnapped. No ransom demanded. Just an order that they must retire prematurely from all professional activity. And, to encourage them, at a certain stage one receives the severed arm of his daughter. The other, the severed hand of his wife. Later, the father of the first victim, Andover, has to be told his daughter's dead body has been washed up in the Solent. You've just examined her body. Murdered by the cold-blooded injection of cyanide. Rabin, this is a matter of national security. I know now I have stumbled on a conspiracy of global proportions. My only lead is the fiend who carried out the amputations. I need a name.'

  `You make out a very strong case,' Rabin commented.

  `And, if necessary, I can make out a much stronger one,' Tweed continued in the same controlled voice. 'I think you know who the surgeon might be. Who?'

  `This conversation has to remain strictly between the two of us…'

  `Did you have to say that, knowing me?' Tweed demanded.

  Rabin gave him a quick glance, walked over to the wall. He took down the framed photograph he had looked at earlier, laid it on the top of a sideboard.

  `This was taken at an international medical convention in Mexico City just a few years ago. Look at this man.'

  He pointed to a figure seated next to Rabin. Tweed examined it. The print was very clear. A large, heavily built man with a paunch. Clean shaven, he wore rimless glasses, had a high forehead and thinning hair. He was smiling, exposing a perfect set of large teeth. Tweed had the impression of a clever man with a high opinion of his own cleverness.

  `Dr Carberry-Hyde,' Rabin said. 'Knew him for years – we trained at medical school together. He always made a point of keeping in touch even when he'd become one of the country's top surgeons.'

  'So why might it be him?' Tweed probed.

  `He has an insatiable appetite for women. There was a case when he tampered with a woman who was drowsy during a preliminary examination. A nurse he'd sent into the next room witnessed the incident through a half-open door. The woman's husband complained. The nurse kept quiet. Then, blow me, he does the same thing with his next woman patient. This time two nurses – including the one who witnessed the previous incident – watched him. When there was an inquiry both nurses gave evidence. Flagrant cases. He was struck off. The case never made the press – too full of a political scandal.'

  `That cut him off from a lucrative income,' Tweed pointed out. 'So what happened to Dr Carberry-Hyde?'

  `He went to live in the New Forest. Dropped me a line just once. I think I've got the letter still. And now I come to think of it, there was a brief mention in the press.'

  Rabin opened a lower drawer in the sideboard, sorted quickly through a pile of papers. He stood up with an envelope in his hand.

  `Got it. Says he's managing to earn a pittance as a salesman for a pharmaceutical company.'

  `And this Carberry-Hyde could have carried out these amputations?'

  `Standing on his head. A great loss. Brilliant chap.' `Any address on that letter?'

  `Yes. April Lodge, Brockenhurst.'

  Nothing of Tweed's reaction showed in his expression. His encyclopaedic memory was flashing back to the house supposed to be for sale in Brockenhurst, the house Paula had visited with Newman. What was the woman's name? Yes, he recalled it. Mrs Goshawk. Of April Lodge, Brockenhurst.

  `You can rest assured,' he told Rabin, 'that no one will know – outside my organization – how I obtained this information. And may I borrow this framed photo? Thank you. I'll let you have it back, of course…'

  Tweed had no regret that he had fooled Rabin in saying he had had to tell Andover about his daughter's death. Any pressure was jus
tified to trace the hideous doctor who had carried out the amputations.

  On their way back to Park Crescent – with George driving and Butler hugging the executive case – Tweed had the car stopped near a public phone box. He called Commander Noble of Naval Intelligence.

  `I have something technically unique to hand over to you,' he told the Commander. 'The sooner you reach my office the better…'

  Tweed was surprised by the speed with which Noble reacted. He had hardly taken off his Burberry and settled himself behind his desk when Monica answered the phone.

  `It's Commander Noble again. Waiting downstairs.'

  `Wheel him up…'

  Noble sat down in the armchair, gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Monica, and listened without interruption. Tweed told him quite frankly about the dramatic interview with Gaston Delvaux, about the small Stealth plane he had constructed inside his plant. Then Butler handed over the executive case.

  `I wonder?' said Noble.

  He opened the case, examined the new device, handling it with great sensitivity. Then he replaced it inside the case. `I wonder,' he said again, 'whether this device really does work in the way Delvaux claims?'

  `You'd better test it.' Tweed leaned forward. 'And may I suggest your boffins get their skates on? Delvaux has always known what he's doing before. He turned down that super-gun idea with the incredibly long barrel the Iraqis pinned their faith on. Delvaux did some mathematical calculations, said the theory was unsound.'

  `Oh, we'll test it,' Noble assured him. 'Both Naval and Air Intelligence. And as a top priority. Did you notice my car parked outside with three men inside?'

  `Yes, I did,' Tweed replied. 'A big job. Heavy looking.'

  `Should be. It's armour-plated. And my escort is armed. Thank you, Tweed. If you don't mind, I'll get the show on the road…'

  When Noble had gone Tweed swung round in his swivel chair. He faced Butler as he gave him the instruction.