by Colin Forbes
Paula was relaxed, glad to feel they had 'escaped'. She liked America but winter-set Maine's atmosphere had disturbed her, especially outside Portland. Maybe it was the grim event which had taken place there - she could see it so vividly in her imagination now they had visited the area. She glanced at Tweed, who appeared to be asleep, but she knew he wasn't, sensed his grim mood reflected in his expression. What was wrong?
A few minutes later the copilot emerged. He approached them and instantly Tweed was alert.
'Mr Tweed?'
'Yes, I am. What can I do to help you?'
Tweed's mood had changed instantly. He was smiling as he looked up at the copilot bending forward, more than smiling he was positively cordial.
'We have a problem, sir.'
'Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.'
'We've received a garbled radio message from. Washington. It appears to say that if a Mr Tweed is aboard, the plane must turn round immediately and return to Boston. Could be from the Justice Department. There's a lot of interference over the air but that's the best we could make of the signal.'
'And you're not sure what course of action to take?'
'Frankly, that's the situation. We have a heavy load. Economy is packed full. In twenty minutes we shall be more than half way to Heathrow. The captain isn't happy about turning back.'
'Maybe it would help if I told you I'd been to the States on a mission.' Tweed produced his SIS folder, handed it to the copilot. 'And,' he went on, 'before leaving Britain I was talking to Russell Straub.'
'The Vice-President? Oh, I see.'
'I have a further suggestion as your captain is disinclined to go all the way back. Wait for half an hour, then send your reply. Say the message received was garbled, not understood.'
'I think the captain will like that idea.' The copilot had caught on to Tweed's strategem. 'By the time we get a reply we'll be well beyond the halfway mark, heading for Heathrow. He won't turn back then. Thank you, sir. I'll mention the Vice-President to the captain.'
'That was very quick of you,' said Newman when the copilot had vanished. He checked his watch. 'Let's see if it works.'
'It was positively brilliant,' commented Paula. 'That bit about talking to Russell Straub.'
'Rather a short exchange of words,' Tweed remarked, 'but no one can accuse me later of telling a lie.'
Three-quarters of an hour later Newman nudged Tweed, who again appeared to be sleeping. His eyes opened instantly.
'We're well over halfway there and the pilot hasn't turned back. It worked.'
'And I can bet where that call originated,' Paula said. 'Jed told us he'd heard Fat Boy Parrish calling his brother in the Justice Department. Reporting our presence nosing round Pinedale, I'm sure.'
'I think you're right,' Tweed agreed. 'They have given themselves away again. Why would they be so bothered, so high up, about the murder of Hank Foley? Enormous power is very worried about this case. About the murder of a caretaker. I ask you. I can almost hear the wires humming between Washington and the American Embassy in London. Russell Straub is probably staying there, in Grosvenor Square.'
'And Mr Straub,' Paula reminded him, 'has a large mansion very close to where that asylum stood.'
'I doubt if he was involved in burning down the place, but its proximity could be significant in another way.'
'I forgot to tell you,' Paula remembered. 'When Jed hustled me to the flight at Portland airport I asked him if they knew where the fire had started. He told me an expert with the fire team told him it originated in the cellar.'
'Where the patients' records were kept,' Newman recalled.
'What did you think of Millie's strange story?' Paula pressed.
Tweed was summoning the steward who had served them their excellent dinner earlier. The man came running.
'Have you, please, a pad I could write a radio message on?' Tweed requested.
It arrived in no time. Tweed began writing carefully in block letters. When he'd completed his message he folded it, summoned the steward again, his hand holding a large tip as well as the folded message.
'Could you please send this urgent message now to the address I've written in London.'
'Certainly, sir. And thank you very much.' 'What was that about?' Paula enquired. 'To cover the possibility that a hostile reception committee may be waiting for us when we reach Heathrow. . .'
'Your party is first off the flight, sir,' the steward informed Tweed.
The huge machine had made a perfect landing. The steward led them to the exit. They received curious and sometimes indignant stares from the other passengers. As soon as they stepped out Chief Inspector Buchanan, lean and lanky in his damp overcoat, met them. Behind him stood Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security and a friend of Tweed's.
'Got your message,' Buchanan said tersely as they walked up the sloping ramp. 'There are some unpleasant people waiting for you. Passports here.'
An official accepted the passports, glanced at them quickly, returned them and disappeared. Holding on to Tweed's arm Buchanan continued his explanation.
'We've squared Customs. We bypass them. Have a profitable trip? Good. State of siege here as far as you're concerned. Howard is repelling an army of bureaucrats. Has an appointment to see the PM within the next few days.'
'I've had bureaucrats up to here,' stormed Tweed. 'Any of them get in my way and I'll steamroller the swine.'
Paula was startled. She had rarely witnessed Tweed exhibit such rage. She gripped her briefcase, containing the book from Wychwood Library, tighter. They followed a complex and strange route along deserted corridors and suddenly walked out into a cold drizzling night.
'Here's my car,' said Buchanan. 'Jump in quick.'
Newman and Paula occupied the back while Tweed sat next to Buchanan, who was behind the wheel. He had just started off slowly when a man rushed into the road, held up both arms. Nathan Morgan in a dark overcoat. Buchanan was compelled to slow, stop.
'I'll deal with him,' Newman called out before Buchanan could move. 'You may be up against a clash of authority.'
'Nathan, how nice of you to come and—'
Newman was still speaking when he trod with all his well-built weight on Nathan Morgan's right foot. Nathan yelled in agony, bent over, trying to speak but making only a choking sound. A man jumped out of a car parked on the far side, ran across.
'You one of his?' Newman demanded.
'What happened?' the man asked. 'Yes, I'm on Mr Morgan's staff.'
'He bumped into me while I was still walking. You'd best help him into the airport, find somewhere you can sit him down. Get a move on, you're holding up traffic.'
The aide had his arm round Morgan's shoulder as he helped his chief, who was now limping badly, towards the interior concourse. Newman was already back inside the car.
As they drove closer to Park Crescent through the traffic Paula found she was hankering for the mysterious atmosphere of the forests of Maine. She'd forgotten what a hell London could be as pedestrians in the dark pushed past people huddled under umbrellas.
As he parked at the kerb of the Crescent Buchanan said he wouldn't come in. He had two days' work waiting on his desk. Tweed thanked him for his response to the message he'd sent from the aircraft over the Atlantic.
'Any time . . .' Buchanan drove off.
Entering Tweed's first-floor office they found not only Monica behind her desk; Howard, the Director, was seated in an armchair in his normal posture, one leg looped over the arm. He was smoking a cigar, a new habit.
Howard was six feet tall, had the plump pink face and the large body of a man who patronized gourmet restaurants.
Clad in a new grey tailor-made suit, he sported an Hermes tie, handmade shoes. He stood, hugged Paula, and she caught the whiff of his aftershave, which was not to her taste. She thought him pompous with his upper-crust voice and manners. But in times of crisis he had surprised her with the full backing he gave Tweed.
'I've been repelling boarders,
kept them off the battlements,' he informed Tweed, who had taken off his coat, seated himself behind his desk.
'What kind of boarders?' Tweed enquired.
'Special Branch idiots - and the Home Secretary.'
'He has no authority over us,' Tweed pointed out.
'I told him that in more diplomatic language. I took my time, knowing how impatient he is. Kept him on the phone for ten minutes while I droned on and on. Saying the same thing in a dozen different ways. Wore him down. Conversation ended when he slammed the phone down on me.'
'Good. I don't like him. Sneaky little man.'
'How did your trip to Pinedale go?'
Tersely, but fully, Tweed gave him a complete picture of their experience in Maine. He quoted what Parrish, Jed and Millie had said. Howard's expression became grave as the story unrolled.
'Strange that the Vice-President has a home so close to the murder scene . . .'
He never finished. The phone had rung. Monica called out to Howard that there was an urgent call on his line. He left quickly. Paula sat up straight, staring straight at Tweed.
'Now maybe you'll answer my question.'
'Which one? You ask so many,' Tweed responded with a smile.
'The one I asked you on the return flight. What do you think of Millie, the cleaning lady at the asylum?'
'Close your eyes mentally. She gave invaluable information.' Paula had closed her eyes physically, seeing the sequence in all its horror described by Tweed. 'The mysterious patient, Mr Mannix, returned in the limo, came back to the asylum. Fortunately Millie had run for it by slipping out of the back door, or she might have lost her own head. It, as you suggested we call the killer, surprises Hank Foley rifling the records cabinet, maybe with its record in his hand. It smashes Foley over the back of the head with the blunt end of the axe it's carrying. The body is dragged out and across the slope where Jed found faint traces of blood. It places the execution block where you found that oblong imprint, places Foley on his back, his neck fitting into the block. It uses the blade of the axe to sever the head from the body in one blow. It then hauls the headless corpse to the edge of the cliff, drops it down into the crevasse. I noticed the house and road were concealed from both those points, so the driver of the limo sees nothing. On its way back to the limo it collects the head, drops it inside some kind of container, returns to the limo, is driven away.'
'The head could have been thrown into the sea,' Newman suggested.
'Could have, but I don't think so, the way my mind is working.'
'That was horrible.' Paula had opened her eyes. 'I saw it all happening the way you described it.'
'In Maine,' Tweed went on, 'the corpse was carefully dropped into the crevasse, where it would be found. At Bray, Holgate's headless corpse was dropped into a shallow stream, where again it would be found. The modus operandi is exactly the same in both cases.'
There was a grim silence in the office for several minutes. Monica had stopped typing, her face ashen.
'Still doesn't make sense,' Paula protested eventually. 'According to Professor Saafeld the same axe was used in both murders. No one would dare transport that by air -thinking of passing through security.'
'There's a way of pursuing that,' Tweed decided. He asked Monica to try and get Roman Arbogast on the line.
'Tweed here,' he said when the throaty voice answered. 'I'm wondering whether anyone has approached you recently about the Adam Holgate case.'
'I've ordered Broden to take any such enquiries. Do you wish to speak to him?'
'No, thank you. Sorry to bother you.'
'I'd like to meet and talk to you, Tweed. Give me another call when you can.'
The call was once more ended when Arbogast slammed down the phone. Tweed heaved a sigh of relief. 'Changed my mind at the last moment. Wrong approach. Get me Jim Corcoran on the line please, Monica . . .
'Jim. Do you know of any way that Roman Arbogast could fly the Atlantic in complete privacy?'
'Certainly do. He keeps a big Gulfstream parked here in a secluded area. All one of his passengers has to do is to bring me their passport before departure. No Customs check. Then they fly off.'
'That's a very unusual concession.'
'Between you and me there's a reason. Arbogast has coughed up a huge sum towards the expense of building a fifth runway. So we help him.'
'You said passengers. Plural. Any names? As you know, I'm conducting a murder inquiry, a pretty grim one. Roy probably told you on the quiet.'
'He did. Names? Have to search my memory. Sophie, his daughter - Roman's. Marienetta, his niece. Blackjack Diamond, the gambler. A Dr Abraham Scale. Oh, and Sam Snyder, the crime reporter.'
'You have an amazing memory. Any dates of when they did fly?'
'Sorry. I just check the names, recall them. They always carry a note for me, signed Roman A.'
'Are these recent flights?'
'Very. Within the past two or three weeks. Which is why I remember the names. That Gulfstream has been off the ground a lot.'
'Any one destination?'
'Always Boston.'
12
'Hello,' said Tweed on the phone.
'That's Tweed, isn't it? Recognize your voice.'
Marienetta. He recognized her distinctive way of speaking.
'Yes, it is, Marienetta. Is there a problem?'
'A whale of one. Could I ask you to come over here quickly? It's a gym. Charlie's Physical. It's in a basement. In King Street, Covent Garden. Stand facing the Strand and it's on the right. A war's started.'
'I'll be over right away. Do I come alone or bring Paula - and maybe Newman?'
'Bring the cavalry!'
'On my way . . .'
As he put on his coat he told Newman and Paula, suggested they came with him. Newman drove them in his car, zigzagging round the back streets and driving far more slowly down King Street. It was Paula who spotted the gym.
'Two buildings down,' she called out. 'The white board over the basement windows. And that car's pulling out. You can grab his slot.'
Leaving Newman to shove coins in the meter, Tweed led the way down an iron staircase, followed by Paula. Beyond a door they emerged into a large well-equipped gymnasium. Marienetta was standing, arms folded, in a leotard, close to Sophie cycling like mad on a machine.
Black Jack Diamond was a distance away, lifting weights while he watched the two women.
'Peace reigns,' Tweed called out amiably.
'It bloody well doesn't!' shouted Sophie.
She stopped cycling, ran over and picked up some barbells. She paused for a moment, breathing heavily. Tweed noticed that Sophie, also clad in a leotard, was as tall as Marienetta but heavier. She screamed the words, glaring with venom at Marienetta.
'You always do this, you bloody thief.' She looked at Tweed. 'Black Jack and I are going to get married. Marienetta hears, starts working her wiles on him. She's done it with other boy friends I thought I had in the past.' Her voice was rising ferociously. 'This time she's not getting away with it. I'll kill her . . .'
She rushed towards Marienetta, the barbells held to strike. Black Jack was suddenly behind her, one arm round her slim waist, the other grasping the barbells. She struggled, but he held her close to him. This went on for maybe half a minute before Sophie slumped. He removed the barbells as she sat on the floor. Suddenly, with Black Jack well clear of her, she jumped up, screaming again, her face convulsed.
'No one can have a man except you. So you take them all off me. Because you're nothing but a bloody whore!'
Marienetta snapped. She walked slowly forward. Her right hand moved like a whip. She gave Sophie a powerful slap with her hand on the right-hand side of the face. Sophie staggered sideways. Tweed moved forward with the speed that had surprised Paula in the past. He held one arm over Marienetta's chest, the other over Sophie's. His voice was biting, harsh.
'Stop this nonsense or I'll call the police. Roman will love the newspaper headlines. With pictures.'
It was the power of his voice as much as his words which defused the situation, although Paula noted that Marienetta was now perfectly calm, her expression neutral.
Fortunately there was no one else in the gym. Sophie backed away. She turned to call out. 'Jack, get your clothes on while I do the same. Then let's get the hell out of this place . . .'
'Could you wait for me, please,' Marienetta called out quietly to Tweed. 'I'm a quick dresser.'
'Take your time. No hurry,' he assured her.
'You handled that well,' Paula said as the three of them left stood in the empty gym, waiting for Marienetta to reappear. 'Did you see the look on Sophie's face? It was murderous.'
'Well,' Newman commented, 'she did threaten to kill.'
'I got the impression Marienetta wanted to talk to you on her own,' Paula told Tweed. 'With just the two of you together she may talk more frankly.'
'You could be right,' Tweed agreed.
'So Bob and I are late for an urgent appointment. We'll see you back in the office . . .'
Only a minute after they had gone Marienetta walked towards Tweed, dressed in a smart grey two-piece business suit. She frowned.