By Stealth

21

`There's been a murder of a cab driver in Brussels.'

Chief Inspector Benoit made the statement as he was driving Tweed and Paula from the chateau to Liege railway station at breakneck speed. Paula sat beside him while Tweed was occupying the rear with the unmarked police car's driver.

`We can just catch the express,' Benoit had decided after spending half an hour with Gaston Delvaux on his own. He had earlier been intercepted by Tweed when he arrived and before he could enter the Chateau Orange.

Tersely, Tweed had explained the situation. He had told Benoit about the kidnapping of Lucie, Delvaux's wife – but had omitted all reference to Stealth and Hugo Westendorf.

`I'll be discreet,' Benoit had promised before following the ambulance up the drive. 'And hand-picked men will watch the chateau from a distance..

This outcome had been inevitable: Andover's murder on Belgian soil dictated that the police must take over the case. Benoit had checked train times, had shown relief when he realized they could return by fast train.

`I've had enough of travelling in a car for one day,' he explained.

`So why are you behind the wheel now?' Paula chivvied him mischievously. 'When you have a perfectly good driver behind us?'

`Oh, Jean is cautious. I drive like a madman – I used to do a bit of race-driving.'

`I can see that,' she commented as he swung round one of the bends practically on two wheels.

`What about this murdered cab driver they informed you about over your car phone?' Tweed called out.

`Well, you said this car which mowed down Andover was a black Mercedes taxi. Two uniformed men found his body inside the same type of vehicle abandoned in Marolles – behind the Palais de Justice. Paula told me she fired one shot through the rear window. The cab they found has one bullet-hole in the rear window. Draw your own conclusions.'

`Would it be possible for me to have a word with the policemen who found it? And even see the body?' Tweed suggested.

`You and I can go to the morgue where they've taken the body. The policemen have been told to wait there for me.'

`I'd like to come too,' said Paula.

Benoit grinned at her. 'A moment ago you suppressed a yawn. Now the lady wants to see a corpse.'

`I've been with Tweed since this business started. I'm not going to miss anything now.'

`The lady has stamina,' Benoit said, and grinned again. `Flattery will get you nowhere,' Paula shot back.

`Have you any idea how this cab driver was murdered?' enquired Tweed.

`It was only a brief message. Maybe we'll know when we get there…' Benoit shrugged.

`If we do reach Liege station alive,' Paula needled him.

Which was not entirely fair. It was only on traffic-free stretches that Benoit rammed his foot to the floor. Now they were threading their way through the dank gloomy streets of Liege Benoit was driving slowly, despite his frequent glances at the dashboard clock. The cobbled streets had a greasy, sweaty look, and as Benoit pulled up in front of the station and Paula stepped out the same appetizing smells of cheap fast-food stalls assailed her nostrils.

Benoit collected their bags from the boot, his portly figure moving at great speed as they rushed for the train. The express was standing by the platform and moved off the moment they had jumped aboard into an empty first- class coach.

Benoit sat opposite Paula while Tweed sat alone, also in a corner seat, staring out into the night as the express raced west. Glancing across at him, Paula guessed his mind was racing as fast as the express. Benoit leant forward.

`I have arranged for a car to meet us at Midi station. First stop, the morgue. Are you sure you want to come with us?'

`Quite sure. But thanks for asking again. Later we can go back to the Hilton.'

`Which is not so far from where the cab driver's body was found,' Benoit said thoughtfully.

`I presume,' Tweed called across, 'that Andover's remains will eventually be sent home to the address I gave you?'

`But certainly,' the Belgian agreed. 'That is, after the pathologist has examined the body. It is the law.'

`Was that all the ambulance contained?'

`No.' Benoit paused. Delvaux showed me his wife's hand in the chest freezer. I persuaded him it must be sent to the pathologist in the same ambulance. What sort of people are we dealing with? Psychopaths?'

`We are dealing with a man of exceptional intelligence and not even an atom of humanity – a man working to a plan, if my theory is right.'

`What plan is that?'

`The elite of Western Europe are being targeted. The plan is to break their spirit, to remove them from any position of influence – to use fiendish psychological methods to turn brilliant men into useless wrecks – both mentally and physically. Especially mentally. How long ago is it since Hugo Westendorf resigned as German Minister of the Interior?'

`About three months or so,' Benoit replied. 'Surely you don't suspect..

`I don't suspect anything. Like you, I deal only in facts. But the timing is right.'

`I could get in touch with Chief Inspector Kuhlmann of the Criminal Police in Wiesbaden.'

`I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't do that under any circumstances,' Tweed said.

`Then I will not do it..

`But what I would like you to do is to ask your pathologist to concentrate first on examining Lucie's severed hand. As a matter of top priority.'

`I can – will – do that. May I ask why?'

`You just did.' Tweed smiled. 'I want to know whether your pathologist considers only a top-flight surgeon could have carried out that amputation.'

`You're going to track them through him,' Paula said.

`I am going to work night and day on every possible lead. There is something enormously menacing behind all this. It could well be a race against time.'

`What about Newman?' Benoit asked. 'He said he would see you in Brussels.'

`He has the car. At this moment he will be driving at top speed through the night. He drives like you, Benoit. So, he might just be waiting for us at Midi.'

`I doubt that,' Benoit said.

They fell silent and Paula closed her eyes as the train stopped at Leuven, then thundered on west again. Tweed had his eyes wide open. He seems tireless, thought Benoit. The pace of his investigation is accelerating.

The morgue was noticeably colder than even the outside world. A white-coated man with greying hair and an authoritative manner, introduced as Dr Leclerc, glanced at Paula and then at Benoit.

`It's all right,' Benoit reassured him in French, 'Miss Grey has seen dead bodies before. You might say it is part of her job.'

Behind Benoit and Paula stood Tweed and Newman, who had been waiting for them in his hired Mercedes when they'd arrived at Midi. Leclerc, a small, well-built man wearing rimless glasses, pulled out one of the rows of large metal drawers. A sheet covered what lay inside. Tweed and Newman stood on one side while Paula joined Benoit on the other. Leclerc drew back the sheet. Paula stifled a gasp. She looked across at Tweed, spoke in French.

`Cyanosis.'

`The lady has had some experience,' Leclerc remarked. `I have not started work yet but the cause of death does appear rather obvious, subject to my examination.'

The cab driver's lips were blue. His whole bony face had a bluish tinge. Paula bent forward, peering at the side of the neck.

`Come round here, Tweed. I think you can see where the fatal needle was inserted.'

`Again the lady is correct,' Leclerc agreed.

Tweed bent down alongside Paula. A small reddish bruise disfigured the side of the neck. Paula was frowning. Tweed caught her expression.

`Yes?'

`That's an odd place to reach easily. I suppose from the back seat his passenger could have inserted her instrument, but it seems unlikely. The driver would see it coming. On the other hand, suppose she pretended to take a liking to him, put her arms round his neck, one hand concealing the needle – in whatever form it is disguised. During the embrace the driver would be off his guard. Then would be the moment she could press in the needle.'

`You think the murderer was a woman?' Leclerc sounded surprised.

`Just an idea,' Paula replied evasively.

`But possibly the right one,' Benoit intervened. `Tweed, you wanted to interview the two policemen who found the cab driver. They are in the next room.' He noticed Leclerc had raised his eyebrows at the suggestion. `Tweed,' he explained, was once the youngest Superintendent of Homicide at Scotland Yard.'

`That was a little while ago,' Tweed said wryly. 'Now, I would like to see those two men…'

Benoit took them all, leaving behind Leclerc, into a small office further along the corridor leading to the morgue. Two uniformed men stood up. Benoit made introductions, using the men's first names, Armand and Marc, and told them to answer Tweed's questions.

`Have you had time,' Tweed asked, addressing Armand, who seemed to be the senior, 'to contact the cab company, to check the mileage on the clock?'

`Yes, sir. It was my first thought. Most cabbies spend their time doing local jobs – to one of the stations, to a restaurant or hotel. Short distances. This cab had been driven a long distance.'

`Could it have travelled to the Liege area and back?'

Armand thought for a moment. 'Yes, sir, it could. The gas tank was almost empty – but I'm going by the company records and the clock mileage.'

Tweed looked at Benoit. 'To me it seems conclusive. It was this cab which the murderer used to kill Andover. And there was a bullet-hole, you said, in the rear window which Paula fired through.'

`We found that bullet, sir,' Armand informed him. 'It was embedded in the rear of the front passenger seat. And it was within millimetres of penetrating the seat. If only it had struck the back of the driver's seat it might have got him…'

`Her,' the younger man, Marc, corrected.

`Why do you think it was a woman?' Tweed enquired.

`All the vehicle's windows were closed when we found it. And, incidentally, there are traces in the boot suggesting the body spent some time in there.'

`So why would it be moved?' Tweed pressed.

`We think we know,' Armand intervened. 'While it was being driven – to Liege, you suggested – the body would have to be concealed. But when the killer left the Mercedes in the Marolles some yobbo could quite easily have jemmied the boot open, hoping to find something worth taking. The body was jammed down inside the rear of the car. It was dark. So unless the door was opened it would appear empty.'

`And why do you think it was a woman?' Tweed persisted, turning to Marc.

`As I told Chief Inspector Benoit when he came to see us just before you visited the morgue, I am a non-smoker. I have an acute sense of smell. When I opened the rear door of the cab I immediately caught the aroma of a perfume – Guerlain Samsara.'

`And just how were you able to identify that particular perfume?' Tweed asked sceptically.

He was standing very erect, both hands shoved inside his coat pockets, staring straight at Marc. He suddenly realized his stance was exactly the same he'd adopted when interrogating a suspect at the Yard. Old habits died hard.

`Because,' Marc explained, 'I'd had a win at the casino in Ostend. I used some of my money to buy my girl friend a bottle of Guerlain Samsara. I should know that perfume now.'

`The cab driver could have picked up a previous passenger, a woman, before he encountered the murderer,' Tweed probed.

`I think not, sir. Samsara is a subtle perfume – expensive. Any woman passenger earlier would have opened the door to get out. She swings her legs out first – I have often observed this – and then she climbs out of the cab. With the door open even that amount of time the aroma would have gone.'

`I'm convinced. Thank you, Marc. In due course you will undoubtedly be promoted. You use your eyes as well as your nose.' He turned to Benoit. 'I think that is all. Except for that matter about the priority for Dr Leclerc.'

`Which I will tell him as soon as I have seen you off the premises. You would like an unmarked police car to take you to the Hilton?'

`I can drive them there,' Newman said.

Tweed shook hands with Benoit. It was the custom in Belgium: when you met, when you departed, and on any other occasion when the opportunity presented itself.

`Now all we need,' Newman said when the bags had been transferred to his boot, 'is a woman who uses Guerlain Samsara.'

The first people Tweed noticed on entering the Hilton were Burgoyne, Lee Holmes, Fanshawe, and Helen Claybourne playing a game of cards. He wondered how Lee had travelled to Brussels.

`We want three executive rooms for two days,' he told the girl receptionist behind the counter. 'I believe there is a special reservation room for those on the twentieth floor.'

`No longer, sir. We do have the rooms but you register here. Chief Inspector Benoit phoned us.'

She asked for a credit card but Tweed paid in cash for the three rooms in advance: you can track a man's movements by tracing credit-card transactions, if you know how. Tweed, still clutching the executive case containing Delvaux's new radar system, then asked for a safety-deposit box.

The girl guided him round a corner at the end of the reception counter, pressed a button inside, let him into a glass cubicle. He closed the outer door, she opened the inner door and led him to the deposit room.

`For that case you will need our largest box…'

Attaching the key to his ring, Tweed thanked her, went outside where Paula and Newman were waiting. Paula came close, whispered.

`You've seen who is in the lounge area?'

`Yes. I think we should make their acquaintance later. What about dinner?'

`I'm beyond it. Ham sandwiches and coffee is all I can cope with.'

`Me too,' said Newman.

`Agreed. We're all on the twentieth floor. We'll meet by the lift up there. When, Paula?'

`I'm going to treat myself to a five-minute shower. A bath is too much effort…' They walked inside one of the elevators, the doors closed, the ascent began. 'I will be ready in ten minutes,' Paula decided. 'Time me…'

Tweed found he had Room 2009, a spacious room the size of a suite. After a swift wash and change of underclothes, he switched off the lights, peered out behind the closed curtains. The view was panoramic – the enormous green dome surmounting the Palace of Justice seemed near enough to reach out and touch. A building larger than St Peter's in Rome. And Marolles is down there, he was thinking – where the murdered cab driver had been found. So close to the Hilton.

In his suite at the Bellevue Palace Dr Wand was working late. When the phone rang the chauffeur answered, handed him the instrument.

`Someone called Vulcan wishes to speak to you.'

`Yes,' Wand opened the conversation. 'You recognize my voice. What is it, please?'

Wand always kept his communications with Vulcan short. It was so important to keep his caller's identity secret.

`I thought you should know,' the voice said in English, `that the Hilton has three new visitors. Your good friend Tweed, Paula Grey, and Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent. Just in case you wished to have cocktails with them sometime.'

`Thank you so much for your call. I will think about it.'

Wand put down the phone. Vulcan had phrased the information carefully. Any switchboard operator listening in would not understand the implications.

Wand pursed his lips and did not smile. Watching him furtively, the chauffeur knew he was disturbed. And he was right.

Wand sat thinking, tapping a slow tattoo with his gold pencil. Tweed first in Liege and now in Brussels. He is coming too close, he thought. He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory, a Brussels number. A woman with a working-class voice answered and Wand asked to speak to Dr Hyde.

`Hyde speaking. Who is this?' The voice was hoarse, and spoke in English. 'I said who is this?' Hyde repeated.

`You know who I am, my friend,' Wand replied. 'I think it might be wise if you moved to a hotel in Liege. It is possible you could have a patient requiring treatment. Either in Belgium or Germany. In the near future. Goodnight..

Handing the receiver to the chauffeur, Wand took out his slim notebook. He turned to the last page where he had noted down in pencil – easy to erase – twenty-five names. They comprised the elite of Western Europe – and there were few politicians. These were the men – and women – Wand feared might detect the plan. Operation Long Reach.

The first three names were Andover, Delvaux, Westendorf. He drew a line through Andover. Dealt with. He paused, his pencil poised. Then he inserted a fresh name after Westendorf. Tweed. Alongside the name he put a question mark. It was a little early to be sure whether Tweed should be subjected to treatment.

Brussels has three main stations, running roughly from east to west – towards the sea. Midi, Centrale and Nord The undistinguished Hotel Hermitage was situated in a small side-street near Centrale station – not the most upper-crust section of Brussels.

Dr Carberry-Hyde – to give him his full name – was packing his case after receiving the phone call. A tall, heavily built man in his fifties, he had a permanent stoop from bending over patients' beds. He had a large head, a hooked nose, thinning grey hair above a tall forehead. Clean shaven, he possessed a perfect set of teeth which he often showed when he smiled at nervous patients. It was not a sincere smile and never reached the eyes behind rimless glasses: he assumed it for his bedside manner.

Dr Hyde wondered whether Liege would offer him the same facilities for relaxation as Brussels: he doubted it. He had recently returned from a certain street where the company of an attractive girl could be obtained for money – rather a lot of money.

He opened a smaller case. Neatly arranged inside were his surgical instruments. He picked up a scalpel and lovingly polished it. Dr Hyde was a man who enjoyed his work.