Deadlock

30

Marler peered through his telescopic sight. The mist had cleared briefly and he watched the outboard dinghy returning towards the towpath across the river. Newman's face jumped into the sight, the dinghy continued its passage, Marler had a glimpse of another man, who was Tweed. His finger tightened on the trigger, the image blurred.

He lowered the rifle, gazing down. Another bank of mist had drifted below the bluff, blotting out the Meuse. He waited patiently, glancing behind him. Hipper had perched himself in a rocky crevice above the far side of the road. He also had lowered his camera. He came scrambling awkwardly down the hillside.

'Why did you not shoot? I saw him clearly in my lens…'

'Hipper…' Marler reached out a hand and clenched the Luxembourger's shoulder, '… are you trying to tell me how to do my job?' His grip tightened. 'Because if so it will give me great pleasure to hurl you off the top of this crag. I do need a clear field of fire and the mist came across it. Also, you are not thinking, are you?'

'What do you mean?' Hipper winced. 'And you are hurting me.'

'Hipper,' Marler repeated, 'when the job is done we need a safe escape route. Those are police down there -with a chopper. So, we need two things. Enough ceiling fog to stop the chopper taking off and locating us from the air when we drive off. But, as I said, I also need a clear field of fire. No mist. A difficult combination.'

'What are you going to do about it?'

'Oh, it's just me now? That's better. Go back to your rabbit hole.' His tone changed, became very cold. 'And stay there until the job is done.'

He turned away, looked up towards the sky above the Meuse. Dense as cotton wool. No chopper could take off up into that. He smoothed a hand over the crown of his head. The patch he normally kept bald with an electric shaver had grown over – making identification more difficult. The bald patch was his trademark; hence his nickname, The Monk.

He stiffened as he looked down. The river bank was clear of fog. A group of four men and a girl stood chatting on the towpath. The fifth man had cruised back downstream, presumably to the point where he'd found the dinghy.

He raised his rifle, squinted through it. Newman's face and head was bisected by the crosshairs. Very close to him was another man, who appeared to be Tweed. Marler took careful aim, steady as a rock. He pressed the trigger as Newman moved a pace to his right, as Tweed stooped to empty water from his shoe.

The crack of the shot echoed weirdly in the mist. Marler gazed through the sight for a few seconds, then stepped back from the bluff. Hipper made record time reaching him. The Englishman looked amazed.

'Missed him. He moved at the last second. And we'd better get moving…'

'A bit close that…'

Tweed showed his hat. The bullet had nicked the brim. He stared up towards the bluff and it vanished in a fresh bank of drifting vapour. Lasalle reacted first.

'Someone up there tried to kill one of us. Listen! A car has started. Get that chopper up…' He ran to the machine, spoke to the pilot, who slammed the door, started the rotors, began to ascend vertically. He ran back to the others.

The Monk's work, I suspect,' Tweed remarked.

'Is it safe for the Alouette to take off?' Benoit asked.

"The pilot says OK,' Lasalle told him. 'All he has to do is keep rising vertically on the upward course where he descended. He's climbing until he gets above the fog, then he's going after that car.'

'Lord,' Paula said, eyeing Tweed's hat, 'he could have killed you.' She shivered.

'You know what they say – a miss is as good as a mile. And what's this coming?'

Two cars, Deux-Chevaux, orange-coloured, were proceeding at slow speed along the towpath. Sonnet sat beside the driver of one of them. Lasalle took off again, running towards the lead vehicle. He spoke quickly to Sonnet, who nodded as Lasalle gestured vigorously. Jumping out of the car, he ran back to the vehicle behind, spoke to the driver. The vehicle began backing away along the towpath as Tweed watched anxiously. The driver was going to end up in the river.

He didn't. He reached a certain point, turned his wheel and disappeared inside the forest. Sonnet walked back to them.

'I instructed him to find that car. He has driven up one of the tracks which will take him on to the road. He has radio. The Alouette will be able to communicate, guide him. And he is calling for reinforcements.'

Lasalle had been staring up the side of the hill. The mist cleared again, clearly exposing the huge bluff. He pulled an automatic from his shoulder holster, aimed the gun and emptied the magazine, filing at intervals round the crag, varying his aim. Taking a fresh magazine from his pocket, he rammed it in place and holstered the weapon.

'What was that in aid of?' Newman asked. 'He's gone…'

'He appears to have gone,' Lasalle replied. 'He could have had another man with him, someone who drove away their car. Just a precaution. My fusillade will have frightened him off- if he was still there. Who was he trying to kill, I wonder? How did he know we would be here?'

'I think Newman was the target,' Tweed replied quietly. 'He was pointed to this area by Peter Brand, the banker. Later I think we should have a talk with Mr Brand. Meantime, may I make a request?' he addressed Inspector Sonnet. 'Could I have a brief chat with Newman in that car?'

'Of course, sir. I kept it so we have transport back to Givet. Another car is on the way.'

'We have things to talk over, Bob,' Tweed said and led the way to the car.

'Can't you drive faster?' yelped Hipper. 'You were wrong about that helicopter. I heard it taking off. And why are you turning off the main road? You can't drive fast along here…'

'Hipper, shut your mouth. I crave silence. If you do not mind – even if you do.'

They had turned on to a winding country lane which was climbing. Overhead the trees on either side met, forming a tunnel of foliage. Marler slowed the car, then stopped. Hipper clutched the camera in his lap.

'You must drive on – as fast as you can…'

'My dear Hipper.' Marler paused to light one of his rare cigarettes. That is exactly what they will expect us to do. Belt like mad along a main highway. Listen.'

The chug-chug of a helicopter came closer. Hipper took out a soiled handkerchief, wiped sweat dripping from his greasy forehead. The machine passed overhead, the sound faded into the distance.

'You see?' Marler yawned. 'We wait until things have settled down. They can't search every road in the Ardennes. So, we wait.'

At the last moment Tweed decided to take Butler with Newman to the Deux-Chevaux which was now empty, the driver having joined Sonnet and the others opposite the sunken Gargantua. Harry had typically remained silent since their excursion across the river, but he sometimes noticed something in a narrative which escaped Tweed.

'Bob,' said Tweed when they were seated inside the Deux-Chevaux, 'tell me again briefly what you reported about your adventures on the Meuse. Especially anything about those bargees…"

He listened intently as Newman recapitulated what had happened. His interview with Willy Boden and his wife, Simone. His later experience aboard Colonel Ralston's Evening Star. He had just finished recalling his chat with Ralston's girl friend, Josette, when Tweed interrupted.

'You say Josette told you Haber has a family, a wife and a son called Lucien, living near this tiny village, Celle?'

That's right. Not relevant…'

'I wonder. I think we've got this thing the wrong way round – that Klein has again been diabolically clever. I thought the Gargantua might well be used to transport the timers made by the murdered Swiss watchmaker. But it was the Erika, the other barge, which Boden and his wife saw moving downstream towards Namur?'

'Right again.'

'We'd better get back to Lasalle and Benoit. I'm worried stiff about the time element.'

'What puzzles me,' Butler broke in for the first time, 'is why would Haber agree to pull the plug on his own barge? Money? I doubt it.'

'And there,' Tweed agreed, 'you've put your finger on the whole business. Let's move.'

'Inspector Sonnet,' Tweed said as soon as they reached the waiting group gathered on the towpath, 'I gather that since you identified the corpse as Broucker, not Haber, you must know something about Haber?'

'Know him well.' The thin Frenchman was terse in speech. 'There may be a frontier beyond Givet. It means little. We are all part of the Meuse. The lifeline of this part of Belgium and France.'

'Is Haber a greedy man? For money?'

'He is ambitious. For his family, his son. Which is why he fights to build up a fleet of barges. To that extent, yes, he is greedy for money.'

'What does he value above money?'

'His family, of course. He worships them…'

'So if someone wanted to force him to do something he didn't want to do – a very ruthless man – where would he apply the pressure?'

'Oh my God, you don't mean…'

He broke off. The sun had broken through, was burning the fog off the Meuse. The sound of a helicopter approaching became louder and louder. As they watched, the Alouette appeared above them, descending more rapidly this time, only slowing a few feet above the towpath before landing.

'I told the pilot to come back for us,' Lasalle said. 'Unless he spotted the car quickiy. Sonnet has used the radio to throw out a dragnet across all main roads. Drivers will be stopped, questioned.'

He ran to the machine and talked briefly with the pilot through the open door. The rotors had whirled to a stop. Lasalle ran back.

'Pilot reports he checked all main roads. No sign of any car. Traffic is non-existent. It was the fog. He says there are scores of country roads through the forest. The killer could be anywhere.'

'Gentlemen,' Tweed intervened, addressing Benoit and Lasalle, 'I request two things. From the navigation instructions I was given with the charts at Brussels airport, I gather each lock-keeper is linked by phone with the next. Further that they keep a record of all vessels passing through their own lock?'

'That is so,' Sonnet confirmed.

'Then we need to trace the barge Erika as a matter of international emergency. At the earliest possible moment. When found it must be intercepted with care – by armed men. Then it must be thoroughly searched. Especially its cargo of gravel. Haber must be interrogated.'

'Sonnet, use the radio on that car to start checking all locks. It could be a long business,' Lasalle warned Tweed. 'How many locks between here and Namur?' he asked Sonnet.

'Sixteen between the frontier and Liege, seven between where we stand and the frontier, plus the tunnels…'

Tunnels?' Tweed pounced. The barges pass through tunnels? Where is the nearest to here downstream?'

'At Revin, only a few kilometres away.'

'And that, I'm sure,' said Tweed, 'is where Broucker had his throat cut by Klein while Haber navigated the barge through the tunnel. It puzzled me – that he would take a chance on killing a man in the open.'

'Who is this Klein? Haber would never stand by while that happened,' Sonnet objected.

'He might have to – if his family had been kidnapped.' He looked at Benoit and Lasalle. That is the second request. I want the chopper to fly me now as close as possible to this village, Celle – where Haber's family lives. And if Sonnet could accompany us – to guide the pilot?'

'Of course…'

'Agreed…'

Both men spoke at once. Sonnet excused himself while he ran to the car to radio through the instruction to check with all lock-keepers in the search for the Erika. Tweed looked at his watch, began to take short paces back and forth.

'You're worried we're going to be too late,' Paula said.

'Exactly. Oh, Lasalle, one more question. That CRS communications van which went missing. What equipment does it carry? What makes it so special?'

The normal radio stuff- as a mobile HQ for riot control. But it also has the most advanced transceiver and a transmitter just received from America. With that – it has a great variety of wave-lengths – the vehicle gives you a range over thirty miles.'

'A command vehicle,' Newman said grimly. 'Just what Klein needs to control the whole diabolical operation.'

'And what do you lot think you are doing?'

The voice, indignant, intimidating, a woman's, called out to them in French as they stood outside the front door of a small cottage on the edge of a hamlet near Celle. Tweed, Newman, Benoit, Sonnet and Paula swung round to stare at the owner of the strident voice standing by the open gate. Butler merely glanced over his shoulder and continued examining the outside of the building. He sensed it was empty.

It was Paula who stepped forward with a smile. The woman was large, in her fifties, had a hooked nose and a prominent jaw. She stood with her arms akimbo, her stance challenging.

'I am Madame Joris,' she went on, 'and I am looking after the cottage while the owner is away. Who are you people?'

'We are worried about Marline Haber and her son, Lucien. You say they are away? Where have they gone?' Paula enquired.

'None of your business…'

'Oh, yes it is.' Benoit walked past Paula, his mood anything but jovial. 'Police Judiciaire.' He waved his warrant card at her. 'Answer the young lady's question.'

'They've gone on holiday, haven't they? She phoned me just before they left, asked me to keep an eye on the place.'

'How did she sound? When she phoned you? They take a regular holiday?'

'Which question first? I'm not on a quiz show. No, they'd never taken a holiday before. Not away. She sounded peaky on the phone – as though she needed the holiday.'

'Peaky? Nervous, perhaps?' Benoit pressed.

'Come to think of it, yes. Short conversation. For her. In a rush to get off to Majorca. Two days ago that would be.'

'Have you a key? Did you see her before she left?'

'No! Told you, she phoned. When I came round they'd gone. And no key. What's this all about?'

'One good heave would open the front door,' Sonnet called out. 'Newman has been round the house, says it looks empty. The kitchen is a mess…'

'How dare you!' Madame Joris stormed up the path. 'Marline is a clean and neat housewife. I don't believe it.'

'Unwashed dishes piled up in the sink,' Newman whispered to Sonnet.

'One good heave. These locks are useless…"

Sonnet pressed a shoulder against the lock side of the door and pushed. It held for a moment, there was a click, the door swung inward. Sonnet recovered his balance.

'You can't do that!' screamed Madame Joris.

'My impression,' Benoit told her amiably, 'is we have just done it …'

'I'm coming in…'

'I was about to ask you if you would be so kind as to do just that.'

Paula tiptoed in behind Sonnet, gestured to the rug in the small hall which was askew. Madame Joris pushed past them after Sonnet and followed him into the kitchen. She stared at the piled-up unwashed dishes.

'Something's wrong.' She sounded alarmed for the first time. 'Martine would never go out shopping leaving things like that. Let alone on holiday.'

'Could you check her clothes, please?' asked Benoit.

Madame Joris came hustling down the tiny staircase in less than a minute. She was agitated and held a pair of shoes in her hand.

'Her best shoes. Bought in a sale. She'd never leave those, her Sunday shoes. Something's terribly wrong. You do realize that, I hope?'

She made the statement as though she were the first to raise the alarm. Tweed stood watching her, hands thrust inside his raincoat pockets. His mind went back to his days as a detective, when he'd stood just like this, confronting a new witness, deciding the best way to handle the unknown quantity.

'Madame Joris,' he began, 'may I congratulate you on your excellent powers of observation?'

She seemed to grow even larger, her full breasts sagging inside her flowered dress. 'I don't miss much, I can tell you that.'

'I'm sure you don't. You know this house. Would you take me over it, see what else you can spot?'

'Of course.' She mellowed visibly under Tweed's flattery, so delighted to be the centre of attraction. 'Shall we start upstairs?'

Tweed followed her up the tiny staircase, just wide enough for Joris to squeeze her bulk between banisters and wall. They went into a small bedroom. Joris began opening drawers. She spoke over her crouched form. 'Wouldn't do this normally, of course…'

'I understand, but Martine may be in great danger.' Tweed understood only too well; Joris was revelling in the opportunity to poke among her neighbour's things.

Tweed noted the neatly arranged items on Marline's dressing-table, the few carefully placed pots on window ledges. He looked at the bed, which was made up but had a rumpled appearance.

'Is that the way Martine would make up the bed?' he asked.

'It is not! An apple pie mess, I call that. She was very tidy in her habits.'

Another signal the girl had left behind to alert the police if they caught on to her disappearance. A clever girl, this Martine. And she must have been scared stiff, knowing she and her son were being abducted. The counterpane draped to the floor. Tweed caught sight of a piece of white paper protruding from under the counterpane. He looked round, saw Joris' ample buttocks facing him as she burrowed in a lower drawer. He bent down, took hold of the paper and dragged out a coloured brochure.

Luxair. The Luxembourg airline. The folder had three pages joined together. It had been folded back to a page headed Cargolux, the cargo-carrying branch of the airline. At the bottom, in black ink and scarcely legible script one word had been written. Rio. Tweed slipped the folder into his pocket.

'What about that wardrobe?' he suggested.

'Can't find anything in the drawers.' Joris marched over to the wardrobe, opened the double doors and stared inside as Tweed joined her. She stood with her arms akimbo, checking the hanging clothes.

'Didn't take her best dress, the one she also wears Sundays.' Her beady eyes dropped to the floor. 'And her travelling case is missing. Never used it. Never went anywhere. But she hoped to one day, when they were rich. That case was her hope for the future.'

Try the dressing-table,' Tweed suggested.

'If you say so. Mind you, I'm only doing this under police orders.' She looked up as Paula appeared in the doorway. 'Didn't know they were getting such good-looking Belgian policewomen these days. Brussels, I suppose?'

'That's right,' replied Paula.

She looked at Tweed as Joris bustled over to the dressing-table. Paula had a flair not only for languages; she had an acute ear for local pronunciation. With Tweed she now realized for the first time she could pass for a Belgian.

'More trouble.' Joris made her statement with a tinge of satisfaction. A touch of drama, even at a friend's expense, was livening up her dull life. 'She left her best undies,' Joris went on. 'What woman would go on holiday and do that. I've checked in there,' she said sharply as Paula separated the dresses inside the wardrobe, then went on checking the dressing-table drawers.

Paula beckoned behind her back to Tweed. He joined her and she pointed at the rear wall behind the dresses. 'She used lipstick,' she whispered. Scrawled hastily in thick red on the wall were two half-finished words. Peug. Jaun.

'He – or they – came for her in a yellow Peugeot,' Tweed whispered back. 'We simply must save this girl and her son.'

'If they're still alive,' Paula responded sombrely.

'What made you think of looking at the wall?'

'Because it's the place I'd have chosen if I was being kidnapped. She must have concealed the lipstick in her hand. While she was taking down a few dresses she scrawled that message.'

'Nothing else,' Joris called out to Tweed. 'Are you feeling all right?'

Tweed, glassy-eyed, had gone into a trance, thoughts flashing through his mind. He blinked, smiled at Joris. 'Lack of sleep, nothing more. Incidentally, shouldn't the boy, Lucien, be at school?'

'I asked that when she phoned. She said she'd phone to the school and tell them Lucien had the flu.'

It took them only a few minutes to check the rest of the upper floor and they descended the staircase. Joris burst out with her discoveries to Benoit with an air of triumph. He listened, lips pursed at her attitude. Tweed waited until she'd finished before he asked the question.

'Did you notice a car pass your house? You're further down the road, nearer the village from the direction you came. I'm referring to the day when Marline phoned you. Perhaps half an hour or so before the phone call?'

'I heard a car, yes. But I couldn't get to…" Joris broke off, her eyes shifting round the kitchen… the window before it had gone up the hill. Tweed mentally completed her sentence. She was the local busybody.

'Did you hear a car return past your house later – say within another half hour?' he pressed.

'No! There is very little traffic all day.'

'Excuse me a moment.' Tweed took the arm of Benoit, who was chatting in undertones with Paula, and led him to the front room, nodding for Paula to follow. 'Benoit, we're looking for a yellow Peugeot…'He described what Paula had found inside the wardrobe. 'And when the car took Martine and Lucien away it drove on uphill – away from the village. Otherwise Miss Nosey Parker would have seen it – she obviously keeps a close eye on what's going on. And she didn't even hear it coming back.'

'Makes sense.' Benoit peered out of the front window where a police car with three uniformed men had stopped. 'The locals have arrived. We can get them moving on the search.'

Paula had been standing with her right hand crooked, studying her fingernails. A mannerism Tweed had already become familiar with: an idea had struck her. Paula frowned as she recalled the A Vendre estate agent's board outside another cottage in the village. She caught Tweed's eye. He nodded again.

'Excuse me,' Paula said, 'but I've been thinking of the sort of place they might be holding Martine and her son. Not too far away, I'd guess – the risk of being spotted by a local in a car would be too great.'

'Makes sense,' Benoit agreed. 'Do go on.'

'I've often thought the ideal place to hold a kidnapped person would be in a house for sale. The kidnapper could find a suitable empty house, call on the agent, say he agreed the price, pay a deposit, but it would take a while to get it surveyed. It's then completely at the kidnapper's disposal.'

'Ingenious. Very.' Benoit looked at Paula with admiration, turned to Tweed. 'If Miss Grey ever wants a job with us here in Belgium I'm sure I could oblige.'

'Thank you. There's something else,' Paula persisted. 'It has to be a suitable place, I said. By which I mean a property remote from the road – and preferably already equipped with facilities to turn a part of it into a prison. Maybe a room with a child's nursery – with bars already on the windows. Or perhaps something even more specialized – some property that's been on the market a while.'

'Better and better.' Benoit rubbed his hands. 'I'll just go and instruct those men coming down the path. Back soon.'

Tweed waited until they were alone. 'Quick, ask Newman to join me. And tell Butler to hold that Joris woman's attention in the kitchen. I'm sure she doesn't understand English. Speak rapidly…'

Sonnet had followed Lasalle into the front garden where they were talking to the new arrivals. Tweed held the Luxair brochure in his hand when Newman arrived with Paula. This is what I found almost under the bed upstairs. I think the abductor dropped it out of his pocket, Martine saw it, kicked it under the bed. One thing I'd bet money on – Klein sent one of his thugs to do the job.'

'What makes you think that?' asked Newman as he studied the brochure.

'Klein would never have let Martine get away with the signals she left us. The unwashed dishes in the sink, the rumpled bed, this brochure. He's sharp as a knife…'He grimaced at the simile. 'Well, we know how he uses knives.'

'This brochure points to Luxembourg City…'

'And Peter Brand has a branch of his Banque Sambre there. We haven't the time – but I think we'd better go there now. Benoit may let us use the Alouette… Talk of the devil.'

Benoit came into the room, spread his hands. 'Good news and bad. Sonnet has heard over his radio a forensic team arrived aboard the Gargantua. But it could be days before a report lands on my desk in Paris. The corpse of Broucker is glued in by heavy mud. At least they've made a start.'

'And the bad news?'

'Telephone strike here in Belgium – overtime ban officially. Which makes phoning from lock to lock difficult – to locate the Erika. I've organized a team of police cyclists to ride the towpaths. It siows down the check.'

'Why not start at the far end?' Tweed suggested.

'Which is the far end? Where was the Erika bound for?'

'You have a point,' Tweed admitted. 'I have a favour to ask. Could we borrow the Alouette to fly us to Luxembourg City?'

'Ah! You're on to something. Only on condition I fly with you. There's close cooperation between the Luxembourg and Belgian police. I might even come in handy.'

'You're most welcome. Has the search started for that poor girl Marline and her son? You do see how it all begins to link up? Haber had carried out some commission for Klein – transporting the stolen bullion, I'm sure. Then he'd had enough – possibly when Klein asked him to transport those timers aboard the Erika. But Klein, the clever bastard, had foreseen Haber might kick up. So first he arranges for one of his minions to kidnap Haber's family. With that hanging over his head Haber has to do anything Klein demands – even including standing by when Klein murders his employee, Broucker. Someone else had become expendable – this time Broucker. The track record shows how Klein deals with anyone he no longer needs.'

'He must be a fiend incarnate,' Benoit mused.

'Oh, he's all of that. Can we get moving? One of those cars could take us back to Dinant – where the chopper is.'

Klein was livid with rage. In Brussels he had just visited the Banque Sambre headquarters in the Avenue Louise to see Peter Brand.

'Mr Brand is in Luxembourg City,' the attractive receptionist informed him. 'He flew there in his executive jet this morning. Can I take a message for…'

'When is he expected back?'

'He will be at his office in Luxembourg City all day. You could phone him…"

'But I can't because there is a phone strike,' Klein said harshly.

'I am really very sorry, sir. Who shall I say called?'

She was talking to the air. The visitor, wearing a smart grey business suit had walked off to the entrance with long strides. Klein had changed from the black outfit with the wide-brimmed hat he had often worn in France. There he had frequently been mistaken for a priest. Which had been his intention; like a postman, he merged with the landscape and was forgotten within minutes of being noticed.

He hailed a cab in the Avenue Louise, told the driver to take him to Brussels Midi, and forced himself to relax. In his mind he was recalling from his phenomenal memory the times of the trains to Luxembourg City. If the cab kept moving he'd just be in time to catch the express which went on to Basle.

Arriving at Midi, he hurried to the ticket counter, bought a first-class return, checked the departure board and ran up the steps. He sank into the seat of an empty compartment as the express began to move.

He never made advance appointments with anyone -they were dangerous because they forecast your movements. But Brand had told him he would be available at the Banque Sambre. It had never occurred to Klein he might mean the branch in Luxembourg City. And he was puzzled what Brand was doing in that part of the world -the last place he wanted attention drawn to.