Blood Storm

9

The Cabal was holding yet another of its brain-storming sessions. All three men were seated round the strange triangular rosewood table. Outside dusk was falling and they had the lights on. Nelson was playing with his fountain pen, still wearing his Armani suit. As usual, Noel was holding forth.

'The Parrot has reported to me about the informant she sent to spy outside Tweed's office. He was still there, so the plan to involve him in that horrible murder in Fox Street didn't work.'

'What horrible murder?' enquired Nelson.

'Obviously you don't read the Daily Nation,' Noel sneered. 'It might help if you kept up with the news. There's a lurid article on the murder by that swine of a lead reporter, Drew Franklin. We ought to do something about him, put him out of action…'

'You've just made two mistakes in a few sentences,' Nelson said severely. 'First, you must call Miss Partridge by her proper name. If she ever heard you use the nickname Parrot we could lose her loyalty, which is important to us. And, in addition, don't try any of your funny tricks on Drew Franklin. He may be a nuisance but he has great influence. Just watch it, Horlick.'

Noel, his face livid, jumped up, ran round the table, his long hands reaching for Nelson's neck. 'Don't ever call me by that name again,' he screamed.

Benton stood up just in time to stop him reaching Nelson. He grasped Noel's outstretched arms, forced them down by his side. Breathing rapidly, Noel glared at Benton, who was smiling.

'Go back to your chair, Noel.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Nelson, I think you'd be wise to remember his name is now Macomber. An apology would help -otherwise I'm adjourning the meeting.'

'My sincere apologies, Noel,' Nelson said quickly. 'I made a blunder, which you can rest assured will never be repeated.'

'I should damned well hope not,' Noel snapped.

He returned to his seat, mopping his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. To calm himself down he poured water from a carafe into a glass, drank the lot. He waited and there was silence while he got a grip on himself. He resumed talking.

'As I was saying, Miss Partridge's informant visited Tweed, found him seated in his office, his normal self. She, the informant, did notice one relationship we might exploit to throw Tweed off balance. I refer to his senior assistant, Paula.'

'What about her?' asked Benton.

'She is Tweed's weak point. He appears to be fond of her. If she was kidnapped-'

'What!' demanded Benton. 'Who gave you that idea?' he went on, his tone ominously quiet.

'Thought it up myself,' Noel replied with a smug grin.

'In that case,' Benton leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on Noel's, 'you can remove the thought from your evil mind.'

'In any case,' Nelson interjected, 'first, who is the informant Miss Partridge used who is capable of penetrating Tweed's fortress?'

'That's restricted info,' Noel replied. 'Not to be told to anyone under any circumstances.'

'I see.' Benton pressed on. 'Had you anyone in mind to carry out this dangerous folly?'

'As a matter of fact,' Noel continued in the same smug way, 'I have the perfect operator for the job.'

'Who is? This time you tell me,' Benton demanded.

'Amos Fitch.'

He was not able to proceed any further. Benton's full face became red, red as a man with high blood pressure.

'Oh, my God!' He lifted a hand, ran it through his thick greying hair. 'Amos Fitch. You've lost your mind. We can't be involved with a brute like that. About eight years ago he was charged with knifing a man to death. The not guilty verdict was due to his brilliant lawyer discrediting the circumstantial evidence.'

'Just a thought,' Noel said, smiling. 'Forget it. And no one has noticed that all the time we've been talking the door to the next room has been left open a few inches. Who left us last?'

'Actually,' Nelson observed airily, 'it was Miss Partridge.'

'I'm checking,' Noel whispered.

He crept over to the door, moved it slightly. Well-oiled hinges. He closed it quietly, testing the latch. He pulled at it quietly. It was firmly closed. He looked at the other two.

'I'm going to see if anyone is there.'

Again he opened the door, slipped into the next room, closing the door carefully. On their own now, Benton looked at Nelson.

'That was a bad slip, using the name Horlick. You saw the effect it had on him.'

'My mistake, but I have apologized.'

Noel surveyed the spacious room next door. No sign of Partridge at her large desk. The only occupant was her assistant, Coral Flenton, seated with her back to him at a corner desk as she worked at a word-processor. Noel crept up behind her, laid a hand on her shoulder.

'Oh, please! Don't do that.' She had moved her mirror and she had nearly jumped out of her chair, which amused Noel. She swung round in her swivel chair, her large hazel eyes glaring at him. She put up a hand to push back a lock of red hair. 'What is it?' she snapped.

'No "sir"? I am a junior minister,' Noel said genially and gave her a wide smile. He perched himself on a nearby desk, looming over her small neat figure.

He had a winning smile and she responded with a faint smile of her own, but ignored the reference to 'sir'. He folded his arms. He still looked youthful and she had mixed feelings about him.

'The door to our sanctum was open, not properly closed,' he began. 'Not that I'm suggesting it has anything to do with you. Has Miss Partridge been lingering near that door?'

'I doubt it. In any case,' she went on, emboldened, 'with my back to it how would I know who comes and goes?'

'Of course you wouldn't. When you leave the office tonight maybe you would join me for coffee or a drink?'

'That's very nice of you,' she replied in a neutral tone, 'but I'm attending a girlfriend's birthday party.'

'Pity.' He stood up, still smiling. 'Maybe some other time.'

He walked slowly back across the wide room to the door and voiced his thoughts to himself, barely muttering.

'Paula is the key. And Amos Fitch is the man for the job.'

Amos Fitch was at the greyhound races. He kept at the back of the crowd, always remaining as inconspicuous as possible. Five feet eight inches tall, he wore a brown overcoat and as usual he also wore a large trilby hat, the brim pulled well down, exposing only the lower half of his face. Which, unintentionally, was kinder to the rest of the world. His restless brown eyes hardly ever stopped moving while they checked his surroundings. The thick upper lids were frequently half-closed so only part of the searching eyes were seen. His bent nose above a thin twisted mouth added to the cunning look, almost his trademark. His mouth was little more than a slit with a heavy jaw below. He was known in certain not-so-law-abiding circles as Sly. He was pondering the brief message on his mobile inviting him to meet Canal at 9.30 p.m. in an East End pub called the Pig's Nest.

Tony Canal was a dubious go-between who never revealed the identity of his employer. This habit had caused Sly to follow Canal on an earlier occasion. Canal was an old Etonian who had gone to the bad, as they said at the Yard. So Sly knew that the real employer was a toff. A real toff, called Noel Macomber.