By Stealth

29

`Did you notice any reaction – surprise, chagrin – among those four when we walked in?' Newman asked.

He was alone with her in the lounge of the Hilton. Lee and Helen had gone to their rooms to freshen up and both Willie and Burgoyne had not returned from taking their phone calls. Newman sipped his whisky as Paula frowned.

`It was disappointing,' she decided. 'I was watching all of them like a hawk. Willie seemed pleased to see me. The Brig. was his usual distant self. I particularly kept an eye on Lee and Helen. Nothing registered.'

`Someone is a good actress – and maybe a good actor…'

`Bob!' Paula grasped his arm. 'I've just remembered – checking on their backgrounds it came up back in London that both Lee and Helen were once actresses. Your remark triggered off that recollection. And you studied their men?'

`Like the proverbial hawk you just mentioned. So we've drawn a blank. But from now on you've got to take even more care. That was an attempt to kidnap you in broad daylight.'

`I know.' She shivered, the delayed reaction hitting her. `Thanks to you and Pete I survived. I'm not sure I would have on my own.'

`You do realize why they picked on you? Remember that I said Tweed was the real target. It was intended to be a repeat performance of Andover and Delvaux. One had the severed arm of his daughter sent to him, the other the severed hand of his wife.'

`Are you trying to frighten me?' she asked quietly.

`I'm trying to scare you witless. Then you'll do as I tell you.'

`Which is what?'

`Until Tweed gets back you eat all your meals here in the hotel…'

`That's going to get claustrophobic…'

`For Heaven's sake, wait till I've finished. There are three restaurants – including the one on the roof. So that gives some variety. Then there are two outside up the street – Lee Arcades and the Copenhagen Tavern. But you only go up to one of those if you're with either Pete or me.'

`I suppose you're right.' She brightened up. 'And I can concentrate on getting to know both Lee and Helen better.'

`Which is a positive aim.' Newman paused, drank more of his whisky. 'Bearing in mind that one of them is likely to be a cold-blooded murderess.'

FAR EAST AIR CRASH. ALL DEAD.

As usual, Tweed had directed the taxi to Regent's Park Underground station. From there it was only a ninety- second walk round Park Crescent to his building. He had bought a copy of the Evening Standard but hadn't looked at it. He walked into his office with the paper tucked under his arm and stopped.

Monica rose slowly from behind her desk with a frozen expression. Spread out in front of her was a copy of the Standard. She waited while Tweed put his Burberry on the coat stand, went behind his desk, sat down.

`Tell me. Now.'

`Philip Cardon is dead. Not only our top agent in the Far East but such a nice man.'

`How do you know for certain?' Tweed asked in a neutral tone.

`The newspaper. It was a flight from Bangkok for London. Soon after take-off it blew up in mid-air, crashing into the jungle. No survivors. A bomb suspected.'

`But how,' Tweed insisted, with a touch of impatience, `can you know at this stage that Cardon was aboard?'

`The list of passengers on the manifest has come through with exceptional speed. You can see for yourself,' she said with unusual vehemence, bringing over her paper.

Tweed looked at where her finger pointed. Philip Cardon, Business Consultant. He pushed the paper aside.

`Monica, I told you when I phoned from Brussels to tell Philip to fly back to Hong Kong, to return via the Pacific route. Didn't he call you back as arranged?'

`Yes he did. And I gave him your instruction. As you told me I insisted it was an instruction, an order.'

Tweed stood up. 'I always, as you know, give my people in the field maximum flexibility. I'm not out there – they are. Who can tell what influenced Philip to take that flight? Maybe someone was closing in on him – so he decided to adhere to his original plan.'

Monica was on the verge of tears. Tweed put his arm round her firmly. He gave her an affectionate squeeze, and when he spoke his voice was deliberately matter of fact.

`I could do with a cup of coffee. Probably you could.' After she had hurried out Tweed walked over to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't see the grey November day, the steady drizzle, the people hurrying in the cold, shoulders stooped, hands inside their pockets.

Philip Cardon had been his best man in the Far East. A wizard at disguise with his prominent cheekbones, he had in the past dressed himself as a peasant, had travelled deep into the interior of the People's Republic of China without being detected. His fluent command of Cantonese had helped. And he was a nice man.

As at other times of setbacks, Tweed turned his mind to different pieces of the mosaic he was building in his mind. Dr Carberry-Hyde. Beyond the window the number of people was increasing. It was late afternoon: rush hotir was starting. Carberry-Hyde fitted the bill as the man he was so anxious to track down in several respects.

The timing was right. The surgeon had the skills needed to carry out the hideous amputations. He'd been thrown on the scrapheap – with justification. He had an appetite for consorting with different women – an appetite likely to grow after his experiences, if Tweed's knowledge of that type of man was anything like accurate. He glanced over his shoulder as two people entered the office.

Harry Butler was holding the door open for Monica. Under his arm he carried several plastic wallets containing glossy prints. Monica held a tray with three cups and saucers, a coffee pot, milk, and sugar – for Harry.

`You've already visited Mrs Goshawk at Brockenhurst?' Tweed asked.

I have. I drove like the wind, but always within the speed limit.' Butler gave a rare grin. 'Just.'

`And,' Monica said as she poured coffee, 'I've discovered something strange about Burgoyne. He's the nephew of the old brigadier you met at Aldeburgh last year. The one who, it turned out, you suspected was still helping Military Intelligence.'

"That is a weird coincidence,' Tweed replied. 'And these are the enlargements of Dr Hyde, I presume.'

Tweed picked up a wallet, extracted one print to examine it closely. A first-rate print. Enlarged, he disliked the look of the doctor even more. Something crafty about the smirking smile for the photographer. But this was a welcome diversion from the topic of Philip Cardon.

`Harry, how did you get on with Mrs Goshawk?'

`Bull's-eye. She didn't want to talk to me to start with. Showed her my Special Branch card. Told her she was in dead trouble. She couldn't spill the beans fast enough then. Dr Carberry-Hyde – she knows him as Dr Hyde – had stayed with her as a paying guest. I imagine it was for a substantial sum – she was shy about the amount.'

`The timing?' Tweed queried.

`Hyde had been with her about two months. He left April Lodge two months ago.'

`That would fit in with the operation which severed Irene Andover's forearm. No idea where he went, I suppose?'

Not normally given to making theatrical gestures, Butler grinned. Tweed waited patiently.

`Belgium. Mrs Goshawk had a postcard perched on her mantelpiece. Oostende. I walked over, read the brief message on the back. "I miss your simply splendid cooking. I may be back for more soon. Hyde." Postmarked two months ago.'

`So Hyde was in Belgium at the time when Lucie Delvaux's hand was amputated. I suspect that second sentence is intended to mislead.'

Tweed felt a tingle of excitement, although his manner remained calm outwardly. This had happened so often before: the long period of gathering data which seemed to lead nowhere. Then the breakthrough! And so often from an unremarkable incident. In this case, Rabin revealing April Lodge as Hyde's address.

`Hyde had stayed with her before,' Butler added.

About three years ago the Goshawk woman said.'

And that, Tweed thought, adds fuel to the flames of this fire. It was three years ago when Hyde had been struck off, losing his lucrative livelihood. Why had he buried himself near the New Forest? Had he been contacted after a news item in the papers, however brief? If so, who had contacted him? Fanshawe? Burgoyne? Tweed became very active.

`Monica, get me Benoit on the line. While I'm talking to him phone London Airport, book me a seat through to Brussels for late tomorrow. Get a ticket which will then take me on to Hamburg. When you've done that pack up a batch of thirty of these Dr Hyde prints. Then arrange for a courier to rush them urgently to Benoit. He's to hand them to Benoit personally.'

`And should I also stand on my head while I'm doing these things?' Monica enquired wryly.

Tweed nodded. Her deep regret at the death of Philip Cardon would return. But for the moment the activity had put it out of her mind. Monica nodded back, indicating the Belgian police chief was on the line.

`I'm on scrambler, are you?' were Tweed's opening words.

`As it happens, I am. Can you tell me why I always make the mistake of being in the office when you call? And no more developments on the Delvaux front. Our friend is spending nearly all hours at his plant. So? What can I do for you?'

`I may have traced the fiend of a doctor who cut off Lucie Delvaux's hand. A Dr Carberry-Hyde. I'll spell that… May simply be going under the name of Hyde. But I think he's in Belgium. Thirty good prints of this character are coming to you by courier. Can you try and locate him?'

`Your timing is good, my friend. Crime seems to be taking a holiday. That won't last long. But I can put a large team of men checking the hotels…'

`Concentrate on the smaller places. This fox will be trying to stay under cover. The courier should reach you this evening.'

`My pleasure. We'll turn Brussels over…'

Tweed put the phone down. Butler was drinking his large cup of coffee. Monica had placed thirty Hyde prints inside a plastic wallet, the wallet inside a shabby briefcase which didn't look worth stealing. She handed it to George, the doorman and guard, who had just entered, gave him instructions. Waiting until he'd left, she turned to Tweed.

`You're booked on a flight to Brussels late tomorrow afternoon. Here are the details. Apparently the only way you can fly from Brussels to Hamburg is via an outfit called Hamburg Airlines. I think it's a private set-up. Why Hamburg, if I may be so bold as to ask?'

`I want to interview Hugo Westendorf, Germany's onetime Iron Man. And I'm not looking forward to it. I expect to find another broken man – with a close relative who has been kidnapped.'

Dr Wand looked up from a map of Denmark in his study at the Waterloo villa. He folded it up as Jules, the butler, approached his desk.

`Please excuse my interrupting you, sir. Vulcan is on the phone. He says he hasn't much time. You always told me that when he called…'

`Thank you, Jules. That will be all.'

As soon as the door closed Wand picked up his phone. `Yes. I am here. Now, what is the difficulty?'

`I am calling from the Post Office but there is a queue for the phones. Tweed has disappeared.'

`Are you really quite sure? And, if so, where has our acquaintance gone?'

`I am sure,' the man's voice continued in a hurried tone. 'And I have no idea where he has gone.'

`To London, perhaps?'

`It seems unlikely since he has left Miss Grey behind. My impression is they usually travel together.'

`Could it be Hamburg?'

There was a menacing note in Wand's voice which had been absent up to this point.

`I suppose it is just possible. Yes, it might be. It has just occurred to me that Delvaux might have mentioned Westendorf to Tweed at the Chateau Orange.'

`Which had already occurred to me. Kindly continue to proceed with the system which has proved so successful…'

Ending the call, Wand pressed the button under his desk to summon Jules. He began talking before the butler closed the door after entering the study.

`I would be obliged if you would treat this as a matter of top priority. The Lear jet must be ready to take off from Zaventem Airport at any moment tomorrow. The pilot will prepare a flight plan for Hamburg.' will phone immediately…'

`I think possibly I did not express myself with sufficient clarity. I thought I had used the phrase top priority. Jules, may I suggest that instead of using the phone you would be so good as to use one of the cars to drive now to Zaventem. In other words,' Wand emphasized softly, `you are to pass on my instructions to the pilot personally.'

Inside her executive bedroom at the Hilton Paula was reading a book while Newman stared out of the window at the heavy evening mist moving in on Brussels from all directions. Marler sat smoking a king-size, watching Newman. He stubbed his cigarette.

`So it is decided that we shall be having dinner at the Baron de Boeuf here on the first floor?'

`Not much point in going out,' Paula replied, closing her book. 'I think a fog is closing in.'

`In that case,' Marler decided, standing up, 'I think I'll drive out for a quick spin to the airport.'

`What for?' Newman asked.

`Just to see whether Dr Wand's Lear jet is still here.'