by Colin Forbes
`So you had a chance to get over jet lag and the after-effects of your flu bout,' Tweed had responded genially. `No, wait until I've finished. I am tracking this vital Stealth problem…'
He had told Dillon frankly about the visit to Belgium, the bizarre murder of Andover in Liege, his conversation with Gaston Delvaux. Mollified, Dillon had nodded and stood up, grabbing hold of his suitcase.
`Then I can catch my flight back to Washington. I now have enough to tell the President you're on the job..'
What a responsibility, Tweed thought. He shrugged. It was part of his vocation. His mind flashed back to the interview with Fieldway. When he got the chance he must take Willie Fanshawe aside, question him about Burgoyne's view of life.
FAR EAST AIR CRASH. ALL DEAD.
He saw the poster next to an Evening Standard newspaper seller. Why did he immediately think of Paula and wonder how she was getting on?
Paula came out of the Brussels shop, the carrier containing her purchase looped over her left arm. She had just bought an expensive pair of knee-length leather boots. The weather had turned even colder.
Walking along near the kerb, she glanced into other shop windows. The green Lincoln Continental cruised slowly behind her. She saw its reflection in a shop window. Why did the Americans have to go in for cars as big as battleships? Gas-guzzlers, they called them – and they were.
The car parked a few feet in front of her. The rear door was thrown wide open. Pursing her lips, she moved to her right to avoid it. As she drew level two powerful hands grasped her by the shoulder. A rough voice growled in heavily accented English.
`Get into the car, lady. Take you back to the Hilton…'
Paula resisted the impulse to struggle. She remembered Harry Butler's instruction during the tough training course. 'The moment to stop being kidnapped is when an attempt is first made. Later is too late…' Relaxing her body briefly, she allowed herself to be thrust towards the interior. The driver, cap pulled well down over his head, was watching in the wing mirror, keeping his engine running.
Paula rammed her left hand on the roof of the car to gain leverage. Her relaxed body suddenly stiffened. With all her strength she rammed her backside away from her. It hit a flabby paunch. She heard her attacker let out a grunt. What happened next was so swift she didn't see it.
A scooter whizzed up out of nowhere. The rider jumped off and let it fall over. Nield, a knuckle-duster on his right hand, slammed his fist into the side of the roughneck's jaw. Blood smeared the assailant's face. A second later Newman came up behind him, slammed into his side with a vicious kidney punch.
The large fat man gave a horrible groan, started to sag to the pavement as Paula slipped out of the way on to the sidewalk. Newman grasped the thug by his greasy hair and the back of his pants. He threw him bodily into the back of the car, where he collapsed.
Nield had already darted round to the open window, where the driver had a dazed look. Nield hit him with less force, then hissed at him in French.
`Bugger off or I'll break your neck…'
Newman had slammed shut the rear door with the groaning body inside. The driver fumbled for the brake. His trembling hands grasped the wheel. The huge car moved away from the kerb as Newman noted down its registration number.
`No need,' Nield called out.
The Lincoln was zigzagging into the main stream of traffic. A juggernaut coming up behind applied its brakes. Not enough time. It hammered into the back of the car. Another car with 'Politie' in large letters along its side pulled up. Two uniformed policemen dived out and opened the doors of the Lincoln.
`Just stroll,' Newman said, taking Paula by the arm. `We're not interested in getting involved…'
Paula glanced back as she forced herself to walk normally. Pete Nield was astride his scooter, crawling along behind them. She hugged Newman's arm.
`Thank you, Bob,' she said. 'But I left you in the shop.' `And I followed you out at a discreet distance.'
`So I've become a target.'
`Tweed has become the ultimate target. Through you.
And you did well. But from now on you'd better be more on the alert than you've ever been in your life." `Understood.'
`And now, if Messrs Fanshawe and Burgoyne are still sitting in the Hilton with their aperitifs, let's see how they react. When they spot you.'
The four of them were still sitting in the lounge area with full glasses in front of them: Burgoyne, who sat next to Lee, Willie, who sat next to Helen. Newman reckoned they must be on their third aperitif. Paula watched them closely as they approached their table.
It was Willie, of course, who jumped up with a beaming smile and started fetching chairs. As he arranged them he chatted away.
`Looking in the pink. Both of you. Can't beat a walk in the sun. Used to stroll about a lot myself back in Hong Kong. Get brown as a berry in no time at all out there. In the season. Ah, for the old days of sunlight and swarming humanity. Really felt alive. Paula, you come and sit between me and Helen. This do you, Newman? There's a good chap.'
`I suppose you'd like a drink,' Burgoyne said in his usual offhand manner.
`If there's one on offer,' Newman replied, staring directly at him. 'What about you, Paula?'
`Mineral water, no ice, no lemon, please.'
`I'll have a double Scotch. Neat,' Newman decided.
Burgoyne summoned a waiter in his usual lordly manner – beckoning with an index finger. Undoubtedly, Newman was thinking, servants had come rushing forward in Hong Kong when signalled with the same gesture. Burgoyne ordered the drinks.
`Don't go away,' he snapped. 'I'm not finished. I'd like a cigar.'
The humidor was brought instantly. Burgoyne, taking his time, performed the ritual. After examining the array on offer, he lifted out a cigar, put it close to his ear, rolled it round in his fingers, sniffed it briefly.
`That'll do.'
`A cigar cutter, sir?'
`Got my own. And hurry up those drinks. My guests will die of thirst.'
`Maurice,' Willie protested mildly, 'you do rather trample on these waiters.'
Burgoyne glared at him. 'They deserve it. If they had any guts they wouldn't be waiters – spending their lives fawning on people.'
`I've met some very good waiters,' Paula contradicted him. 'Trained at the best hotels.'
`You wouldn't damn well think it – the time they take to bring a couple of drinks.'
`They haven't been long,' Paula responded, refusing to back down.
Burgoyne stared at her, his ice-cold eyes seeming to gaze right through her, to read her mind. She stared back. How many poor subalterns had dropped their eyes before that stare, she wondered. The man had the soul of an iceberg. Helen intervened to lower the tension.
`I see you've been shopping. Something nice?'
Her cool grey eyes watched as Paula pulled out from the carrier the pair of boots. Leaning forward, Helen ran her strong slim fingers over the leather. She looked at Paula as she commented.
`They're so supple. Even so, I couldn't wear them – boots always chafe my legs.'
`And a very choice pair of legs to chafe,' Burgoyne remarked, his expression more saturnine than ever.
`We're talking about the boots,' Lee snapped. She reached over, took one, smoothed her hand down its surface. To do so she had placed her fat jewelled cigarette holder on the table. Paula's hand stretched out to examine it. Lee snatched it up with her other hand. `Don't think me rude, but the jewels drop out easily. It was a present from a rich boy friend. When I didn't come across with what he'd expected he turned ugly. So I dropped him – but I kept the present.' She handed back the boot, inserted a cigarette in the holder without lighting it, and turned to Burgoyne.
`Maurice,' she said, throwing back a wave of blonde hair, 'you could buy me a pair like those.'
`I could,' he agreed cynically.
Quite clearly he had no intention of granting her suggestion. At that moment a waiter came up and spoke to Willie.
`A pho
ne call for you, sir.'
`What a bore.' Willie stood up immediately, moved far more quickly than was his custom, beaming round the table. 'Please excuse me, I'd better take the call in my room. So much noise down here…'
Willie had scarcely left them when the waiter returned and spoke to Burgoyne.
`There's a phone call too for you, sir.'
`Must be Liege,' Burgoyne said to himself. He raised his voice. 'Transfer it to my room – my files are up there. You do know my room number by now, I hope. And I'll sign that bill for the drinks which were eventually served…'
A few minutes earlier, inside his study at the Waterloo villa, Dr Wand glanced up as the uniformed chauffeur he'd summoned entered the room. He was still wearing his dark glasses.
`Joseph, get me Vulcan on the phone, if you would be so kind. You know his hotel and room number…'
He had to wait a short while as the chauffeur talked to the switchboard operator at the Hilton. Wand's lips were pursed as he took the phone.
`I am here,' a man's voice said. 'Who is this?'
`I am speaking and I have to tell you I am most displeased. A young woman was to be our guest, collected by car. I have just heard that instead of having the pleasure of her company the invitation was mishandled. Very badly mishandled, if I may say.'
`My apologies…'
`I am, as you know, extremely uninterested in apologies. I am only interested in results.'
`It was a rush arrangement. I warned you when we last spoke that such hurried arrangements are dangerous.'
`Now, how right you are,' Wand said in a deceptively soft tone. 'I distinctly recall some such comment. I also recall that you assured me my instruction would be dealt with nevertheless. I would even go so far as to say you have created a complete fiasco. To such an extent, the next invitation will be that much more difficult.'
`I assure you…'
`I am also extremely uninterested in assurances. Your new instruction is to co-operate with Joseph. I feel that he may well succeed where you have failed. Would you feel offended if I asked whether you have grasped my instruction? I repeat, you will be so good as to co-operate with Joseph. He will be in touch with you in due course. In fact, my dear sir, very shortly.'
Wand put down the phone before the man at the other end had a chance to reply. He sat back in his chair and the chauffeur remained very still and silent. The eyes behind the gold pince-nez were blank as he studied Joseph.
His manner changed suddenly, became amiable. He waved a hand and the desk light flashed off a ruby ring.
`Paula Grey is the lady whose company we wish to enjoy. I have the utmost confidence in your ability to accomplish this small task. Study the lie of the land – as a successful commander always relies on first carrying out a thorough reconnaissance.'
`I will make my move at the earliest opportunity,' the chauffeur replied.
29
`Did you notice any reaction – surprise, chagrin – among those four when we walked in?' Newman asked.
He was alone with her in the lounge of the Hilton. Lee and Helen had gone to their rooms to freshen up and both Willie and Burgoyne had not returned from taking their phone calls. Newman sipped his whisky as Paula frowned.
`It was disappointing,' she decided. 'I was watching all of them like a hawk. Willie seemed pleased to see me. The Brig. was his usual distant self. I particularly kept an eye on Lee and Helen. Nothing registered.'
`Someone is a good actress – and maybe a good actor…'
`Bob!' Paula grasped his arm. 'I've just remembered – checking on their backgrounds it came up back in London that both Lee and Helen were once actresses. Your remark triggered off that recollection. And you studied their men?'
`Like the proverbial hawk you just mentioned. So we've drawn a blank. But from now on you've got to take even more care. That was an attempt to kidnap you in broad daylight.'
`I know.' She shivered, the delayed reaction hitting her. `Thanks to you and Pete I survived. I'm not sure I would have on my own.'
`You do realize why they picked on you? Remember that I said Tweed was the real target. It was intended to be a repeat performance of Andover and Delvaux. One had the severed arm of his daughter sent to him, the other the severed hand of his wife.'
`Are you trying to frighten me?' she asked quietly.
`I'm trying to scare you witless. Then you'll do as I tell you.'
`Which is what?'
`Until Tweed gets back you eat all your meals here in the hotel…'
`That's going to get claustrophobic…'
`For Heaven's sake, wait till I've finished. There are three restaurants – including the one on the roof. So that gives some variety. Then there are two outside up the street – Lee Arcades and the Copenhagen Tavern. But you only go up to one of those if you're with either Pete or me.'
`I suppose you're right.' She brightened up. 'And I can concentrate on getting to know both Lee and Helen better.'
`Which is a positive aim.' Newman paused, drank more of his whisky. 'Bearing in mind that one of them is likely to be a cold-blooded murderess.'
FAR EAST AIR CRASH. ALL DEAD.
As usual, Tweed had directed the taxi to Regent's Park Underground station. From there it was only a ninety- second walk round Park Crescent to his building. He had bought a copy of the Evening Standard but hadn't looked at it. He walked into his office with the paper tucked under his arm and stopped.
Monica rose slowly from behind her desk with a frozen expression. Spread out in front of her was a copy of the Standard. She waited while Tweed put his Burberry on the coat stand, went behind his desk, sat down.
`Tell me. Now.'
`Philip Cardon is dead. Not only our top agent in the Far East but such a nice man.'
`How do you know for certain?' Tweed asked in a neutral tone.
`The newspaper. It was a flight from Bangkok for London. Soon after take-off it blew up in mid-air, crashing into the jungle. No survivors. A bomb suspected.'
`But how,' Tweed insisted, with a touch of impatience, `can you know at this stage that Cardon was aboard?'
`The list of passengers on the manifest has come through with exceptional speed. You can see for yourself,' she said with unusual vehemence, bringing over her paper.
Tweed looked at where her finger pointed. Philip Cardon, Business Consultant. He pushed the paper aside.
`Monica, I told you when I phoned from Brussels to tell Philip to fly back to Hong Kong, to return via the Pacific route. Didn't he call you back as arranged?'
`Yes he did. And I gave him your instruction. As you told me I insisted it was an instruction, an order.'
Tweed stood up. 'I always, as you know, give my people in the field maximum flexibility. I'm not out there – they are. Who can tell what influenced Philip to take that flight? Maybe someone was closing in on him – so he decided to adhere to his original plan.'
Monica was on the verge of tears. Tweed put his arm round her firmly. He gave her an affectionate squeeze, and when he spoke his voice was deliberately matter of fact.
`I could do with a cup of coffee. Probably you could.' After she had hurried out Tweed walked over to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't see the grey November day, the steady drizzle, the people hurrying in the cold, shoulders stooped, hands inside their pockets.
Philip Cardon had been his best man in the Far East. A wizard at disguise with his prominent cheekbones, he had in the past dressed himself as a peasant, had travelled deep into the interior of the People's Republic of China without being detected. His fluent command of Cantonese had helped. And he was a nice man.
As at other times of setbacks, Tweed turned his mind to different pieces of the mosaic he was building in his mind. Dr Carberry-Hyde. Beyond the window the number of people was increasing. It was late afternoon: rush hotir was starting. Carberry-Hyde fitted the bill as the man he was so anxious to track down in several respects.
The timing was right. The surgeon had
the skills needed to carry out the hideous amputations. He'd been thrown on the scrapheap – with justification. He had an appetite for consorting with different women – an appetite likely to grow after his experiences, if Tweed's knowledge of that type of man was anything like accurate. He glanced over his shoulder as two people entered the office.
Harry Butler was holding the door open for Monica. Under his arm he carried several plastic wallets containing glossy prints. Monica held a tray with three cups and saucers, a coffee pot, milk, and sugar – for Harry.
`You've already visited Mrs Goshawk at Brockenhurst?' Tweed asked.
I have. I drove like the wind, but always within the speed limit.' Butler gave a rare grin. 'Just.'
`And,' Monica said as she poured coffee, 'I've discovered something strange about Burgoyne. He's the nephew of the old brigadier you met at Aldeburgh last year. The one who, it turned out, you suspected was still helping Military Intelligence.'
"That is a weird coincidence,' Tweed replied. 'And these are the enlargements of Dr Hyde, I presume.'
Tweed picked up a wallet, extracted one print to examine it closely. A first-rate print. Enlarged, he disliked the look of the doctor even more. Something crafty about the smirking smile for the photographer. But this was a welcome diversion from the topic of Philip Cardon.
`Harry, how did you get on with Mrs Goshawk?'
`Bull's-eye. She didn't want to talk to me to start with. Showed her my Special Branch card. Told her she was in dead trouble. She couldn't spill the beans fast enough then. Dr Carberry-Hyde – she knows him as Dr Hyde – had stayed with her as a paying guest. I imagine it was for a substantial sum – she was shy about the amount.'
`The timing?' Tweed queried.
`Hyde had been with her about two months. He left April Lodge two months ago.'
`That would fit in with the operation which severed Irene Andover's forearm. No idea where he went, I suppose?'
Not normally given to making theatrical gestures, Butler grinned. Tweed waited patiently.
`Belgium. Mrs Goshawk had a postcard perched on her mantelpiece. Oostende. I walked over, read the brief message on the back. "I miss your simply splendid cooking. I may be back for more soon. Hyde." Postmarked two months ago.'