by Colin Forbes
`Why there?' Paula enquired.
`Because I also phoned Copenhagen and spoke to reception at the d'Angleterre Hotel. They confirmed the Burgoyne Quartet checked out yesterday afternoon. Special Branch told me Leopard's Leap and The Last Haven – Burgoyne and Fanshawe's homes – have people at home. That is where we will expose Vulcan. And find our murderess. Not a pleasant woman.'
A December chill gripped the New Forest. Paula noted that as darkness fell mist trails crept among the bare trees. She shivered as Tweed drove along the drive of The Last Haven. There were lights in the Scandinavian-style house.
In the rear of the car sat Butler and Nield. They had all surrendered their weapons to Tweed at the Four Seasons on arrival. He had taken them to Berliner Tor, had handed them over to Kuhlmann. He had also arranged for fresh weapons to be supplied to everyone except himself – as they drove away from London Airport. Paula, who sat beside Tweed, asked her question as they proceeded up the drive.
`Where are Newman, Marler and Cardon going to now?'
`Why, to the Brigadier's residence next door. I've issued an invitation for him to join us. With the glamorous Lee Holmes, of course.'
`Of course,' she replied acidly.
`Had to hold our little tete-a-tete at one of the houses,'
Tweed continued in buoyant mood as he pulled up. `You think you know who Vulcan is?' she asked. `Yes, I do.'
`And the murderess?'
`Again, yes.'
Paula restrained her cat-like curiosity. In any case, she was sure Tweed wouldn't tell her anything at this stage. As he reached out to press the bell the door swung inward. Willie Fanshawe stood there in a smart but rumpled navy blue blazer and grey slacks. With his figure, Paula was thinking, he'd never look immaculate. He beamed with pleasure, stepped forward and kissed Paula on the cheek. 'I say! What a bit of luck. Completed the circle, haven't we? Eh, Tweed? You met us here. Then we hopped all round Europe. Now, back again to base! Must say I'm entranced to see you. Bit of a flattener – getting back to the New Forest. Wonder why they call it that? It's an old forest! Do come in. What about your two chaps out there?'
Butler and Nield had climbed out of the car. They made no move towards the house. They'd received their instructions from Tweed – patrol the grounds behind the house.
`I think they'd sooner get a breath of fresh air,' Tweed replied. 'They've been driving for hours,' he lied.
`Then come on in you two.' Willie took Paula by the arm. Beyond the heavy front door they walked straight into the L-shaped living-room furnished in Scandinavian style. To Paula it seemed years since they had last entered this house. 'Sit yourself down on the couch,' Willie urged as he relieved her of her trench coat.
`Helen!' he called out. `You'll never guess who has just turned up. Close your eyes and I'll give you three tries.'
The door from the kitchen opened and Helen strode in, her fountain-pen and a notebook in her hand. Clad in a grey cardigan half zipped up to the neck, she wore a white blouse underneath with a mandarin collar. Her slim slacks had a razor-edge crease and were also grey. She had her eyes wide open. The Grey Lady, Paula thought.
`Don't play silly games, Willie,' Helen chided him. Her cool eyes passed over Paula, fastened on Tweed. She went towards him, holding out her slim hand. 'How very nice to see you again. What would you like to drink?'
Tweed, who had refused Willie's offer to take his trench coat, saying they wouldn't be staying long, clasped her hand. It was firm and cool. With her back to the others, she gave him a secret smile, then turned and sat down by the side of Paula on the couch. She waved her pad and pen.
`Shopping list. Someone has to see there's food in the house.'
`I hope you don't mind,' Tweed said, addressing Willie, `but I asked Bob Newman to bring Burgoyne and Lee Holmes round. A sort of reunion…'
The doorbell rang as he was speaking. Willie hurried to open the door and Tweed accompanied him.
`Capital idea,' Willie enthused. 'We've hardly seen the Brig. and his femme fatale since we got back.'
Outside Newman had swung round his Volvo so it pointed back the way he had come. In the shadows of the house he noticed a Mercedes – smeared with mud – was parked. Tweed's Ford Escort stood out of the way in front of the door which now opened.
Burgoyne, dressed in country clothes, stepped out of the back of the Volvo as Lee alighted on the other side. He looked grim and not at all pleased. Before calling for them Newman had dropped Marler and Cardon on the road – they were now concealed among the trees facing the entrance to the drive.
`Tweed, darling!'
Lee, wearing a green off-the shoulder creation, rushed forward, hugged and kissed him, her strong hands gripping his shoulders.
`How absolutely marvellous!' she told him. 'When we can, let's go off somewhere together for the weekend,' she whispered.
`It's something to think about,' Tweed replied.
She had an arm round his waist as they entered the living-room. Paula glanced at Helen seated next to her, saw her lips curl briefly. These two women are not all that fond of each other, she reflected.
`Double Scotch. Neat,' rapped out Burgoyne when asked what he'd drink.
`Why not champers for everyone?' Lee suggested, dragging a chair close to Paula. 'I could nip back for a bottle. This calls for a celebration.'
Burgoyne was sitting in a carver chair in a corner where he could see everyone. Newman perched on the arm of the couch between Paula and Lee. Tweed, still standing, thrust both hands into the pockets of his trench coat, the stance his old colleagues at Scotland Yard would have recognized.
`I am afraid this gathering is no cause for celebration, Lee,' he began. 'It is an investigation into the identity of a multiple murderess and a professional traitor.'
***
The atmosphere changed instantly, became tense, disturbing, menacing. Burgoyne was the first to react, his voice harsh as he gripped his glass of whisky.
`Tweed, what is all this bloody nonsense?'
`Don't you know?'
Tweed stared at the Brigadier, who glared back at him with an expression of ferocity. He drank half the contents of his glass, placed it on a side table, uncrossing his legs.
`No, I don't. I think you owe us an apology.'
`I think, instead, an explanation might be more useful.'
Tweed paused as Lee produced her jewelled holder. With trembling fingers she inserted a cigarette, then perched it at the corner of her full red-lipped mouth. She held it there with two fingers of her left hand.
`Let's take the identity of the multiple murderess first,' Tweed went on in a conversational tone. 'So far the following people have been murdered by the injection of cyanide. A girl called Hilary Vane as she disembarked at London Airport from a plane flying in from Washington. Still in England, Irene Andover was finished off with a cyanide injection – that came before the murder of Vane. Now, we move to Brussels. A cab driver was also killed by the same method – injection of cyanide with some sort of hypodermic. Vane and the cab driver were killed by a woman. The same woman then took the dead cab driver's vehicle to Liege where she drove down and killed Sir Gerald Andover. Later, I'm sure…'
`This is quite beastly,' Lee protested. There was a steely note in her voice. 'Do we have to go on?'
`We do,' Tweed continued relentlessly. 'Later, I am sure, the same woman finished off Lucie Delvaux with a cyanide injection after one hand had been amputated. Then a man called Joseph Mordaunt was murdered in the Parc d'Egmont. Again with a cyanide injection.'
Helen had been scribbling down the names with her fountain-pen on her pad. She counted.
`My God! You're talking about at least six murders,' she commented.
`Which is why I used the phrase multiple murderess. And I found it significant that two of them took place within a stone's throw of the Hilton – the cab driver in the Marolles, Mordaunt in the garden behind the hotel. Where both of you were staying.'
`Surely you are not sug
gesting that one of us-' Lee began.
`Not suggesting,' Tweed rapped back. 'I am accusing.' He turned his attention to Lee. 'The London Airport murder, that of the cab driver, and Mordaunt – all these suggest a very specially designed hypodermic was used. Something which outwardly was an everyday item. Lee, could I look at your cigarette holder?'
`Certainly not! The jewels fall out easily if carelessly handled.'
Paula felt her face with one hand, smoothing it over her complexion. A moment before Tweed had taken his left hand out of his pocket, rubbed the side of his nose with a finger, then shoved his hand back inside the pocket. The signal he had arranged with Paula,
`I need something to freshen myself up,' she said. 'If either of you could give me some Guerlain Samsara – my favourite perfume – I'm sure that would do the trick. Lee, I believe you use it. I caught a waft when you were playing cards in the Hilton.'
`I borrowed it from Helen.'
`I'll get you my bottle.'
Helen jumped up, left the room by another door close to the kitchen. She returned with the bottle and sat down again as she handed it to Paula. Thanking her, Paula applied a small quantity under her ears, then returned the bottle to Helen who placed it on a side table.
`That's what we were looking for,' Tweed told Helen. `You see, when two policemen opened the closed cab containing the driver's body there was a strong aroma of perfume. Yours. Guerlain Samsara.'
`Very clever, Mr Tweed.'
As she spoke, Helen placed the cap on her pen, an action Tweed had seen before. But this time she then turned the cap, screwing it on tight. With her palm she pressed the end and a needle shot out. With her left hand she grabbed Paula's wrist.
`Anyone who moves towards me kills her,' she said in a cold voice, her grey eyes blank, devoid of any human emotion.
Paula whipped over her other hand, grasped Helen's hand holding the hypodermic. A tigerish struggle to the death began. Helen stood up and Paula jerked herself upright with her opponent. The side table went over, the bottle smashed on the floor. The two women were facing each other, fighting savagely, their bodies moving like two manic wrestlers.
Newman tried to intervene but the hypodermic was flailing about unpredictably. Paula was surprised by Helen's lithe strength. She hung on to the wrist, forcing it away from herself. Helen aimed a kick at Paula's right leg, but only grazed her. Steadily Helen forced down the needle nearer to Paula's body. Another side table went flying. The needle came closer still to Paula. Then Paula used her free hand to grasp Helen by the throat in a strangler's grip. She dug her nails into Helen's neck.
Helen made a supreme effort to thrust the needle into her antagonist. Paula diverted the thrust. The needle sank deep into Helen's chest and – involuntarily – Paula pressed the plunger. Helen's whole body stiffened. She stopped struggling, sagged over the back of the couch, lay quite still.
Tweed glanced at Burgoyne who now stood by, staring at the corpse.
`Cyanosis, Brigadier. You recognize the symptoms?'
54
`Helen! Of all people! I can't believe it.' Willie went to a double-doored wall cupboard, opened the left-hand panel. 'I need a pick-me-up. This is just too awful…'
He poured himself a glass of Cyprus sherry, perched the bottle back on the shelf, leaving the door half open as he stumbled back to a chair, sat heavily in it. He drank half the glass, looked round in dazed fashion.
`Sorry. Anyone else need a drink?'
Heads were shaken as Paula walked with stiff legs to a different couch. As she sat down Newman joined her, put his arm round her tense body. Her breasts were heaving with the effort.
`No,' Burgoyne said, seating himself again in the carver in the corner, 'I'm not familiar with the symptoms. At least I wasn't until now.'
Already Helen's lips were a bluish tinge and the same colour was spreading to her stiffened face. Willie flapped a hand.
`Can't just leave her like that. I'll move her…'
`Don't!'
It was Tweed's order. He still stood with hands inside his trench-coat pockets. A half-minute earlier he had run close to Paula, but, like the others, couldn't find a way to disentangle the flurry of arms which had waved about.
`Nothing must be touched until the police are called – but that can wait for a few minutes longer. Brigadier, ever heard of someone called Vulcan?' Tweed asked.
`I believe I have. In Hong Kong.'
`Ah, the Far East,' Tweed recalled. 'Where long ago you went missing for four months behind the Chinese lines in Korea. What did Mao's lot do when they captured you?'
`I say, hold on there!' Willie protested. 'We've just had a frightful tragedy. The Brig. doesn't like those days being recalled. Show some sensitivity.'
`Mao's crowd didn't do anything to me.' Burgoyne gazed straight at Tweed. 'Because I was never captured. Went to ground until I could get away. You seem to know a devil of a lot.'
Lee had collapsed back into her chair. Her teeth chattered. Tweed sensed she was on the verge of hysteria. She sat playing with her cigarette holder.
`They say it's rained non-stop while we were away. All the rivers are swollen.'
It was the sort of remark people sometimes make when they are excessively upset. She suddenly burst into tears and Paula hurried over, kneeling beside her. Tweed waited until she had quietened down, then swung round to look down at Willie.
`You have heard of Vulcan?'
`One of the old Roman or Greek gods. Made thunderbolts for Jove
…'
`And you made them for Dr Wand.'
`Sorry. Not with you.'
`Willie, remember that chat we had in the Sambri bar at the Four Seasons? The topic of Brigadier Burgoyne came up. I listened while you told me that what he doesn't love is the present state of England. You went on about the welfare state, about the young wanting everything handed to them on a plate. A good dose of iron government is what is needed – the implication being Communist discipline…'
`Tommy-rot!' Burgoyne blazed.
`Let me finish. Willie remembered now and again to say these were your views. But he'd had a lot to drink and really let his tongue run away. It sounded to me that Willie was expressing his own attitudes – camouflaging them as the Brigadier's. But, Willie, you were just a bit to vehement in expressing those views – which are your own. Because you are Vulcan.'
`I'm confused. Need another drop of the good stuff…'
He stood up, walked unsteadily towards the two-door cupboard. Reaching inside, he unlooped the Heckler and Koch sub-machine-gun concealed inside the left-hand door, turned round, suddenly alert, and aimed it point-blank at Paula.
`First person who moves and she gets the whole mag.'
Everyone froze. Especially Tweed. The stock of the sub-machine-gun was collapsed but the muzzle stayed aimed at Paula. The Heckler and Koch: its performance rattled through Tweed's mind.
A 9mm weapon, it had a rate of fire of six hundred and fifty rounds a minute. A range of almost five hundred feet. It would obliterate Paula. She stayed on her knees, staring over her shoulder.
`You are Vulcan,' Tweed said quietly.
`Key to the whole operation – which you've smashed. But don't worry, we'll be back. I have my contacts. And now I'm leaving. By the front door. Anyone who opens it within five minutes gets the full burst.'
His genial 'favourite uncle' face was etched as though in stone. Willie backed towards the front door, opened it, slipped outside, closed it. Newman, holding his Smith amp; Wesson, ran to the door, listened. He heard the engine of the Mercedes start up, speed off down the drive. He opened the door just in time to see the car turn left – towards Beaulieu. He ran to the Volvo, jumped inside, started the engine, his gun on the seat by his side, and raced down the drive.
***
Fanshawe saw the lights of the car pursuing him, pressed the button which automatically slid back the sun roof.
Drifts of mist and cold air flooded in but Fanshawe turned the heaters
full on. An opportunity might come to ambush his pursuer. If so, he could stand on the seat, poke his head and shoulders out of the opening, and look down on his target. The sub-machine-gun lay on the seat beside him.
As they raced along the deserted winding road through the forest Newman became aware the temperature had nosedived. Ice was forming on his windscreen. He set his wipers going, turned his headlights full on. This was dangerous weather – one unnoticed patch of ice on the road and he'd end up against the trunk of a tree.
Fanshawe was driving like a maniac, increasing speed all the time. A heavy white frost crusted the dead bracken, coated the bare branches. They had left the forest behind and with a few hundred yards between them Newman passed Hatchet Pond. The moon had come out and he saw the surface of the small lake was coated with a sheet of ice. No weather for moving at such speeds.
Fanshawe reached the approaches to Beaulieu, tore down the hill. To Newman's horror he saw two boy cyclists on the diabolical bend where the road to Buckler's Hard turned off to the right up Bunker's Hill. Without reducing speed, Fanshawe skidded round, missing the cyclists by inches as he roared off up Bunker's Hill. The cyclists, unhurt but terrified, had fallen off on to the verge.
`Stupid cretins!' Fanshawe shouted, waving one clenched fist while he held the wheel with the other hand.
Cold-blooded bastard!' Newman growled to himself.
He took the bend more slowly, accelerated as he climbed the curving hill. A minute later he was on the level stretch of lonely country road. Fanshawe's red tail-lights were disappearing as Newman rammed down his foot. He shot forward like a rocket, closely watching the road surface at the limit of his lights.
Fanshawe had turned down the private road to Buckler's Hard when Newman reached that point and also turned. He pressed his foot down harder, closing the gap. Ahead, Fanshawe was skidding round corners. Why was he heading for Buckler's Hard?
Newman controlled the wheel with one hand. With the other he held his Smith amp; Wesson, rested his arm on his open window, fired two shots over the roof of the Mercedes. As he'd hoped, Fanshawe panicked, drove even faster and Newman fired one more shot, again aimed over the roof.