by Colin Forbes
10
Jed's car was a battered Chrysler parked behind the house. He turned the heater up full blast, stood outside as Tweed sat in the front passenger seat while Paula was in the rear with Newman. The warmth was building up as he called out before slamming the rear door shut.
'Back in a minute. Got to collect something.'
Paula watched him run to open a door at the back of the house, reached inside to pick something up. He returned carrying a suitcase, which he dumped in the boot before he jumped in behind the wheel.
'Going somewhere?' Paula enquired.
'You bet!' The car was already moving, heading back to the main highway. 'All my things. I've had a bellyful of that Parrish. Andersen in Portland has secretly offered me a much better job, plus more money. The real appeal is I'll be working under Andersen, a real right guy.'
He had reached the highway. He turned left, away from Portland in the direction of distant Boston. He turned round to look at Paula, grinning. 'I can start enjoying my work now. And I'll drive you folks back to Portland. But only when you've seen everything you need to.'
'Does Parrish know?' Paula asked mischievously.
'Hasn't a clue. I'll phone him from Portland to give him the good news.'
The landscape had changed as they sped along the blacktop. On both sides the ground opened out across stretches of crusted clods of earth where fields had been ploughed. Ahead were more trees but the forest had been thinned out. Jed was whistling to himself.
'Where is Pinedale?' Tweed asked.
'This is it.'
Glory, Paula thought. Here and there, well spaced out, were small miserable clapboard houses with lights behind the closed curtains. People live here all their lives, she was thinking. Londoners who take cheap package deal trips to Italy, to the Caribbean, have no idea what the rest of the world is really like.
'See that burnt-out building near the edge of the highway in the distance?' Jed asked Tweed.
'Yes.'
'That was the asylum - nursing home, they called it -where people parked their unwanted relatives who were mental kooks. Sometimes patients went in for treatment and came out again. You needed a load of dollars to get in there. Privacy was absolute.'
He suddenly swung off the highway along a track, climbing. Paula was aware of a booming sound as the track veered closer to the burnt-out ruin. The storm was hammering against the windscreen. Tweed peered across Jed to his left.
'How far is the asylum from the point where you discovered Hank Foley's body?'
'No distance at all. I found traces suggesting the body had been dragged from the asylum to the coast. Streaky patches of blood. All gone now. We've had heavy rain and no one believed me.'
'How did you come to find the corpse?'
'I was patrolling the edge of the coast in case some ship was heading for the rocks. It was stormy that night. I'd have called the Coastguard in Portland. Parrish of course didn't give a s—t. Excuse me, ma'am.'
'I'm familiar with the word,' she assured him. 'What is that booming sound?'
'Huge waves coming in and smashing against the cliffs. So here we are.' He stopped the engine. 'Don't get out yet, folks. When you do, watch yourselves. The cliff drops straight down. The wind's off the ocean, which helps, but you can get blown flat like when you hit a pin in a bowling alley. You guys can manage but,' he went on turning to look at Paula, 'mind if I hold your arm?'
'I'd welcome the protection,' she replied, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror, smiling.
Taking Jed's advice, they got out of the car on the right-hand side, away from the ocean. Paula first buttoned up the collar at her neck before climbing out. Leaving the car, the wind hit them like a moving wall. They bent their heads as Jed clung on to Paula, and suddenly they were at the brink.
Monster waves rolled in as though determined to overwhelm America. They slammed against the cliffs below and spume splashed their faces. The noise was deafening. Still holding on to Paula, Jed pointed down, yelled to Tweed.
'Body was crammed in that huge crevice.'
'Was the storm worse than this when you discovered Foley's corpse?' Tweed shouted.
'No. This one is the biggest we've 'ad this year.'
Tweed had noticed the biggest waves were breaking a good twenty feet below the chasm-like crevice tucked into the cliff. So if the corpse had been thrown into the sea, how had it ever been hurled back, when the ocean didn't reach anywhere near the crevice? He shouted his observation at Jed.
'Never thought of that,' the American replied after staring down for a while.
'I'd like to explore over there,' Paula yelled, pointing down the scrubby slope towards the wrecked asylum. 'I can manage on my own, but thanks for looking after me.'
Then she was off, taking out of her large bag a powerful torch, which she switched on. It was a dreadful night. The howl of the wind, the thudding of the sea against the cliffs. As she moved her booted feet carefully, descending the slope towards the asylum, she was visualizing what direct route she'd have used dragging a body from the wrecked nursing home to the cliff. Except she doubted the place had been burnt down by then.
She was close to the ruin when she found what she was looking for. Earlier she had entered an area of tall grass but here the ground was exposed, as though handfuls of grass had been torn up. Imprinted in the ground was an oblong shape.
'What is it?' Tweed had followed her. They were sheltered from the wind at this spot.
'The place where the execution block was placed. Foley was beheaded here.'
'Keep that idea to yourself.'
'Information, not an idea.'
She took out her small camera, which took perfect pictures without a flash. She clicked the button five times, slipped the camera back into her handbag just before Newman arrived with Jed. Tweed turned to the American. Earlier he had told him when their commuter flight left for Boston, a flight which hopefully linked up with a plane to Heathrow.
'Jed, have we time to look at that nursing home, or what is left of it?'
'Sure. I'll ram the pedal down on our way back. Take you straight to the airport. We'll go back to the car first. Not far.'
It was a short drive to the burnt-out building. As soon as Jed had parked, Paula jumped out and pushed open the wrought-iron gate, which was still standing. She approached the blackened ruin slowly. Brick walls still reared up. So Dr Abraham Scale was wrong when he'd said the Americans didn't know about brick. Had he been here? Now why do I wonder that? she asked herself.
'Where would I hide it?' she asked aloud.
'Hide what?' Tweed asked.
She didn't reply as she was now imagining she was an arsonist. Behind the building was a dense area of evergreen shrubs.
With her gloved hand she picked up a long charred stick, began poking round inside the shrubbery. Tweed had also found something to root around with. Unlike Paula, he plunged deep into the shrubbery, sweeping his thick stick back and forth deep down. There was a dang! as it hit something metallic. He stooped down, holding the stick in place with one hand while with the other he felt down the stick. When he straightened up he was holding a large red metal container by the handle.
'This what you're looking for?' He turned to call out to Jed. 'Can you identify this?' He shook it. 'Empty. Any idea what it contained?'
'Gas,' said Jed. 'Highly inflammable.'
'And if,' Tweed continued, 'the full contents were spread over the bottom floor of the house what would be the result when it was ignited?'
'An inferno. And the asylum had a cellar with windows low down. The records were kept there.'
'What sort of records?'
'Detailed records of the patients who were staying here - or had stayed here.'
Paula had crept towards a standing wall cautiously. She peered round the end. Jed was right. There was a spacious cellar with small arched windows which would enable anyone inside to peer outside.
'I was looking for something like that,' Paula com
mented. 'Someone was anxious those records were destroyed. The cellar is knee-deep in burnt debris.' She opened her glove and showed Jed a fragment of paper curled at its edges. 'Any idea what this is?'
'A bit of the bottom of a medical record,' he said, examining it by the light of her flashlight. 'I can just make out Bryan's signature. Millie, the asylum's cleaning woman, showed me one of these - although she shouldn't have done.'
'What kind of medical record? And who is Bryan?'
'A confidential summary of a patient's problems, why they were admitted, treatment, name -' Jed was staring at the sky, trying to remember what he'd seen when secretly he'd been shown one of the documents - 'address, sex, age . . .' He grinned. 'And who was paying the enormous bill. As for Bryan, that was Dr Bryan, who ran the place with his wife and a staff. Since the fire the Bryans have disappeared. They couldn't be located and we gave up the search.'
'Were there casualties? Patients? Staff?' Paula asked.
'No. A few days before the fire all the patients were sent elsewhere. Staff were all laid off with a bonus. They've scattered all over the country. One, I know, went to Ohio.'
'Curious,' Tweed remarked. 'The timing.'
'The rumour was the Bryans had made their pile and left. They were going to sell the place - but after the fire . . .' Jed waved his hands in a gesture of resignation.
Tweed persisted. 'Is there no member of the staff left in Pinedale?'
'There's Millie. Lives just down the highway. A two-minute drive.'
'Have we time for you to take us to see her? I'd like to ask her a few questions.'
'Sure. Fat Boy Parrish would bust his gut. He's declared the case closed. Maybe money changed hands. Let's move.'
* * *
They drove down the highway a short distance beyond the ruined asylum. There were more trees, and inland it was hilly, small rolling slopes climbing up to forest. Jed stopped outside a small clapboard house on their right near the highway. Two storeys high, several shutters drawn over windows hung at bizarre angles, presumably supported only by the top hinges. There was no porch, only a wooden rail with a gap leading to the front door. There were lights on behind the windows.
'Millie's in,' Jed remarked. 'But then she would be. Doesn't go out after dark since the murder. Best if I let her know I'm here.'
He knocked twice, loudly, on the wooden door, then called out, 'It's Jed, Millie. Jed.'
They waited in the bitter cold while Paula stared round at the wilderness. Once again she wondered how people lived here all their lives. They heard two locks turning, the removal of a chain. The door was opened a crack and Jed spoke again, then he shoved his face closer and the door opened wide.
They walked straight into a living room, out of the Arctic into overpowering heat from a stove crackling cheerfully. Millie attended to relocking, putting the chain back into position. Paula noticed a shotgun on a sideboard. Millie was taking no chances.
Millie was quite small, in her late thirties, and her brown hair was neat, well-brushed. She wore a spotless white dress rather like a nurse's and peered curiously at her visitors.
'These are Brits,' Jed explained, 'sent down from Portland by Andersen.'
Tweed was grateful for his phrasing. It gave them an air of authority. Standing against one wall was a huge new-looking TV, turned off. On a table stood a set of fine cut glasses and four bottles of expensive Scotch. Their hostess was sharp-featured but had kind eyes. Paula noticed there wasn't a speck of dust on the furniture surfaces, despite their cheapness. Jed made introductions. Millie ushered them to sit in sturdy wooden chairs, settled herself into an ancient armchair close to the whiskey on the table, picked up a glass and sipped from it.
'Your friends can be trusted,' she told Jed. 'I've checked them out.'
'Saw you doing it,' Newman told her with a broad grin.
'We haven't much time,' Tweed began quietly. 'We have to get back to Portland. I'm investigating that horrible murder. Hank Foley.'
'Thank 'Eaven someone is doin' that. They tried to cover it up. I feel guilty. They bribed me to keep my mouth shut.' She pointed at the TV. 'That arrived with the bottles of whiskey. Don't normally drink but it's a comfort after what 'appened.'
'I can understand that,' interjected Paula with a smile. 'I drink a glass of wine when I'm rattled.'
'Who is they?' Tweed asked. 'Who gave you the presents?'
'Bribes,' she snapped. 'No idea where the stuff came from. Delivered by a truck with no note. They keep well 'idden.'
'Did you notice anything strange at the nursing home while you worked there?'
'They 'ad six to ten patients. No room for more. And that included the prison room.'
'Prison room?' Tweed queried.
'The one only Dr Bryan could enter. 'Eavy door with two locks, special windows with extra bars. A Mr Mannix was kept in there. Never saw 'im. Bryan even took 'is food in. Told us all the patient was dangerous. Once saw inside the prison room when it was empty. Furnished like a top 'otel in Boston, it was.' Now she had started Millie was voluble. Paula guessed she was glad of someone to talk to.
'Whoever was payin' for 'im must have 'ad a fortune. The last patient to leave on the night of the fire. The others went days earlier.'
'How do you know he was Mr Mannix?' Tweed asked.
'He 'ad his name on the outside of that prison door. I only saw 'is back when he left to get into the limo. A queer business. Wore a black coat and was tall. On 'is 'ead he wore a funny wide-brim 'at. Couldn't see 'is face.'
'The hat,' Paula interjected again, concealing her excitement. 'Was it a Spanish hat? Sorry, you probably don't know what I mean.'
'I do,' Millie told her. 'On a rare trip into Portland I saw a man with same kinda 'at. Bumped into Jed, asked 'im who this queer-looking guy was. He said Spanish.'
'That's right,' Jed confirmed. 'He was behaving suspiciously so I questioned him. Turned out he was a tourist. Guy called Rodriguez. He was OK. Not the same guy Millie saw leavin' the asylum. He was short and fat, not tall. Rodriguez, I mean.'
Paula's mind had flashed back to the night in London when a second shadow had appeared behind hers. Shadow had worn a wide-brimmed Spanish-style hat. Millie was talking again.
'Like I said, Mr Mannix was the last patient to leave. I was down in the cellar where the records were stored. Hank Foley was in the far section of the cellar with a locked door. Somewhere he shouldn't 'ave been. Didn't know I was there. Don't know 'ow he got a key, but 'e always was a snoop. I kept quiet by a window at the front, squeezed in an alcove. Hank was pullin' out a patient's file. It must 'ave been one of the new patients. I cleaned in there once and noticed the dates. New ones were in this cabinet nearest the door, which was where Hank was.'
'What happened next?' Tweed enquired while she sipped more whiskey. She spoke without a slur, as though quite sober.
'Peerin' through the window I saw Mr Mannix leavin' and get inside the limo, which drove off towards Boston. But that wasn't the end of it. A minute or two later limo returns, rear door opens. I didn't like it. I left the cellar real quiet, got my coat, slipped out of the back door and walked 'ome.'
'Did you see Mannix's face then?' Tweed probed.
'Didn't wait to. I was frightened. Something queer was goin' to 'appen. Felt it in my bones. A couple of hours later I saw the flames when the asylum started to burn.'
'Where was Dr Bryan while all this was going on?'
'Dr Bryan and his wife 'ad driven off towards Boston about two hours before what I've just told you 'appened. In the cellar.'
'Leaving you and Foley to clean up the place? He must have been in a hurry to get away. And it's odd that Mannix, a dangerous patient, was left to depart on his own.'
'I didn't like it.' Millie looked frightened. 'Thought it was queer.'
Jed stood up. 'We'd better get going if you're to reach Portland in time.'
They thanked Millie for all her help. She had obviously hoped they'd stay longer. Outside the arctic atmos
phere hit them badly after their time in the warmth. Jed spoke to Tweed as they headed for the car.
'Something I should have told you earlier. When I went in the back way to collect my bag from headquarters I heard Parrish on the phone in the office. He was phoning Washington. I heard him swearing at the operator. "Three or four more hours to get through? Bloody ridiculous." Slammed down the phone and I came out, closing the back door quietly. He'd be phonin' his brother, who has done better than 'im. Brother is with the Justice Department.'
Paula glanced at Tweed. His expression had become grim. Would they get clear in time? Before climbing inside the car she pointed across the highway to a large mansion perched on top of a hill, Mock-Tudor style with wooden beams criss-crossing the gables. A long drive led up to it and there were no lights visible.
'Who does that place belong to?' she asked.
'Someone I don't like. Thinks he's Lord God Almighty. The Vice-President, Russell Straub.'
11
The United Airlines Boeing was flying them further and further east through the night, was close to the mid-point over the Atlantic from Boston to Heathrow.
Jed had driven like the wind to Portland airport where they were in time to catch the vital commuter transfer to Boston. It had still been a rush at Boston to board the transatlantic flight. Now, in first class, they occupied another three-seater: Paula by the window, Tweed in the middle, Newman by the aisle. Their section was two-thirds empty. No one was talking. Tweed's grim mood seemed to have silenced Newman.