Precipice

12

Tweed sat silent, made no attempt to press their host for further information. Paula had noticed that Newman had acted as though Archie was a stranger, someone he had never met before. It was the safety valve operating between an agent and an informant. Obviously Archie had kept Marler and Newman in separate compartments.

She really was intrigued by their host. Well dressed in a blue business suit, he wore surgical gloves. She tried not to look at them and glanced round the room. It hadn't been dusted for months. Archie seemed to read her mind.

'The gloves I wear intrigue you,' he said to her. 'By always wearing them I leave no fingerprints. The people who are searching for me are very skilled. Also, you have observed the room is covered in dust, does not look as though it has been inhabited for months. Which is the impression I wish to leave behind in case someone breaks in.'

'You're very thorough.'

'It is the secret of survival.'

'But what about the neighbours?' she persisted. 'Supposing someone questioned them?'

They would say the place was empty for months, that it was a holiday home. In a tiny village like this the locals do not take kindly to strangers.' He looked at Marler. 'Do I get protection?'

'We haven't the manpower to guard you wherever you go night and day. What sort of protection?'

'Just for the next few hours. Tomorrow I need to be driven to Heathrow, but tomorrow is a long way off.'

'The boot of my car,' Newman suggested. 'It won't be comfortable but you could stay overnight at the Black Bear in Wareham. Marler is staying there.'

'Comfort?' The cigarette at the comer of his mouth wobbled as he chuckled. 'Comfort is something I can live without. I have often slept rough – especially on the Continent. It is getting dark.' A frown creased his forehead.

Paula had noticed that dusk was beginning to fall. And there were no lights so Archie was becoming a silhouette in the gloom. He stood up.

'I will meet you all on the beach. Drive straight on through the village. I will join you. I have to clear up here. This mug has to be washed out. And there are other things to attend to. I will join you in a few minutes.'

'Can I help clearing up?' asked Paula as everyone stood up.

'Most kind, but I work faster alone.'

'Would I be inquisitive if I asked who you are afraid of?' coaxed Paula.

'Leave now. To answer your question, The Motorman is active. He killed the wrong man at Devastoke Cottage…'

They drove slowly down to the shore along a narrow road with arid fields on either side. It was dusk but the moon was up and Paula shuddered. The end of the world.

Pulling up in a flattened area above the sea which probably served as a car park during the season, Tweed switched the engine off. Paula got out, fastened the top button of her windcheater.

The bay was deserted with cliffs rising on both sides. A bitter wind blew off the sea, which was a chaos of churning waves. She looked back at Kimmeridge and saw specks of light. Newman was already busy with his open boot. She walked over to him and Marler stood watching.

Newman had hauled the travelling rugs out of the rear of his car, was arranging them inside the boot as a makeshift bed.

'He'll be able to breathe all right?' Paula queried.

'Plenty of air in there.' Newman assured her. 'I'll give two hoots on the horn occasionally.' he informed Tweed, who had joined them. 'Wait for me. I'll be checking to make sure Archie is OK. You can get him a room at the Black Bear?' he asked Marler.

'Easily. He'll probably want to stay in it. I'll tell the staff he's feeling exhausted and get a meal sent up to him. You'll be over from the Priory in the morning to take him to Heathrow.'

'I wonder where he's off to?' Paula mused.

'Don't ask him.' Tweed warned. 'He's one of the most remarkable characters I've encountered in a long time. And it's uncanny how he knows everything that's happening. Marler, you escort Newman back to Ware-ham.'

'Where are you off to?'

'I'm driving with Paula to Sterndale Manor.'

'The place will be a ruin.' Newman reminded him.

'Yes. But I like to observe for myself the scene of the crime. Probably goes back to the old days when I was a superintendent at the Yard.'

'And the youngest superintendent with Homicide in its history.' Paula piped up. 'What do we expect to find there?' she asked when Tweed shrugged at her remark.

'An old friend. Who the devil is this coming?'

Marler slipped a Walther out of its holster, held the weapon by his side. A scarecrow-like figure was cycling down the road towards them.

Paula gazed in disbelief at the man who jumped off his bicycle. He wore a battered old hat, a pair of glasses perched at a cock-eyed angle on the bridge of his nose, a shabby raincoat smeared with oil. It was only the dead cigarette at the corner of his mouth which told her this was Archie.

'Have to get rid of the bike,' Archie said urgently. 'I'll shove it off that cliff over there into the sea. Tide's on the turn.'

'I'll do that,' Paula said firmly.

Thank you. Mind how you go.'

Archie stripped off the hat and the raincoat, exposing the same blue suit underneath. From a pannier at the rear of the cycle he took a travelling bag and joined Newman to climb into the boot.

Paula, by the light of the moon, pushed the bike a distance to her left uphill. Reaching a point where the cliffs were higher she took hold of the saddle, pointed the front wheel towards the sea, gave it a strong shove. As it went over a huge wave crashed against the cliff, threw spray high up in the air, and the cycle was gone. She hurried back as Tweed was instructing Newman and Marler.

'When Paula and I get back we'll have dinner at the Priory. Don't forget our eleven o'clock appointment with the bartender, Ben. Bob, you do know the way to Bowling Green? It will be dark.'

'There's a moon. Have fun with your mysterious friend at the manor

…'

Leaving Corfe behind, Tweed accelerated up the steep winding hill, slowed to pass through Kingston, then drove higher. In his head he carried a map of Dorset and turned on to the tarred drive leading to Sterndale Manor. In the distance they saw arc lights shining on the wreckage. Policemen in uniform were moving about and a crane on the back of a small lorry was lifting something out of the carnage. Tweed slowed down as a policeman stood on the drive, hand held up.

'So that's your friend.' said Paula.

Behind the policeman Buchanan had appeared. He came up to the car and Tweed prepared for an argument. Instead, Buchanan looked at both of them and smiled cynically.

'As usual, your timing is perfect. Now you're here you might as well see.'

'See what?' asked Tweed, getting out of the car with Paula.

'The crane. What it's holding in its grab. The old General's safe. The trouble is the heat burst open the door a crack so everything inside will be burnt to ashes…'

A strong wind was blowing along the valley direct off the sea. They watched as the safe was lowered to the ground. Immediately a squad of men erected round it a large high canvas screen with a roof to ward off the wind.

'They're well organized.' Paula whispered.

'Buchanan always is.' Tweed replied.

He had just spoken when the Chief Inspector beckoned to them and they followed him inside the canvas tent as a policeman lifted a flap, closed it behind them. Buchanan put on a pair of asbestos gloves and carefully lifted the door open. Inside was a mess of black ashes. Nothing had survived.

'We'll send them to the experts.' Buchanan remarked, 'but I'm not hopeful we'll ever detect what was inside the safe.'

'Maybe I could help?' Tweed suggested. 'My people have been working on a very advanced technique for detecting what was written or typed on papers burnt to ashes. They've had a lot of success.'

'Really?' Buchanan thought about it as Sergeant Warden entered the tent. 'Then supposing I do give you a sample and you crack it? As a quid pro quo would you explain the technique to us?'

'Agreed.'

Buchanan carefully used a scoop to extract some of the ash, putting it into a samples bag Warden handed him and sealing it. Warden gave him a larger bag and Buchanan put the smaller one inside it, sealed the larger bag. He handed it to Tweed.

'That would be safer inside my shoulder bag.' Paula suggested.

'Here it is, then.'

Emerging from the tent Tweed and Paula, with Buchanan standing beside them, gazed at the wreckage. One chimney stack had survived and was surrounded with barbed wire. Buchanan pointed to it.

'Unstable. It will have to come down.'

'What a lot of history we're gazing it.' Paula said. 'Generations, some of whom probably feuded with each other. The end of an era.'

'It was very professional.' Buchanan informed Tweed. 'We know now that not only was petrol used but that it was backed up with thermite bombs. Ruthless.'

'I'll keep in touch.' said Tweed, 'whatever the outcome of our experiments. It may take a few days.'

'Is that all?' Buchanan sounded surprised. 'Maybe you are on to something…'

Tweed was driving off South Street, entering the Georgian square where the short lane led off it down to the Priory, when a parked car flashed its lights at him twice. He stopped. Paula produced her Browning automatic, touched Tweed's sleeve with her left hand.

'Be careful. There's no one else about. And this place is dark.'

Which was true. It was dimly illuminated with lanterns suspended from wall brackets.

A slim figure emerged from the car, which Tweed now saw was a Rover. He recognized Keith Kent, dressed in his suede jacket and well-creased grey slacks. He had his window lowered as Kent peered in, nodded to Paula.

'A word in your shell-like ear,' he said to Tweed.

'Shall I take the wheel and drive on to the Priory?' Paula suggested, relieved that it was Kent.

'Not necessary, my dear,' Kent assured her. He smiled. Because, unlike Franklin, he only smiled occasionally, when he did he gave the impression he genuinely liked someone. 'I'm sure you know at least as much as Tweed about what is going on.'

'We'll get out and wander round the square with you,' Tweed decided.

'Good idea. I prefer the three of us on our own. I phoned the Priory from a box in South Street. They told me you were still not back so I waited here. I've seen Bob Newman come back in that old Merc of his. A little while afterwards that chap Franklin returned with the girl, Eve Warner, and Philip Cardon in the back.'

It was eerily quiet as they walked over the cobbles round the deserted square. Tweed waited for Kent to speak.

'This investigation of Leopold Brazil you asked me to undertake. I could start in London – he has a place in the City. But my instincts tell me to fly over to either Paris or Geneva.'

'Geneva,' Tweed said.

'You'd like any other information I can pick up concerning Brazil? Apart from where he's been getting funds from, I mean?'

'Every crumb would be useful. You have carte blanche.'

Kent paused under a lantern, cocked his head on one side, a mannerism Paula had noticed when he was concentrating on every word.

'Carte blanche.' Kent repeated. 'That can be an extremely expensive item on the menu.'

'Spend what you have to.' Tweed said as they resumed walking. 'By the way, have you ever heard of a man called Marchat?'

'No, I haven't.' Kent said promptly.

A shade too promptly, Paula thought. And he was the first person who hadn't asked how it was spelt.

'Should I have heard of this character?' he enquired.

'I'd have been surprised if you had. I should tell you that Franklin runs a small chain of detective agencies, one in Geneva. The firm is called Illuminations. I'm telling you so you don't stumble over each other. He's also probably going to be checking out Brazil although I haven't asked him yet.'

'Will he know I'm investigating the same target?'

'No.' said Tweed. 'If he did it could become a muddle – and he'll be going about his enquiries in a different way from you. He hasn't your financial expertise.'

'So I know about him but he won't know about me?' Kent emphasized.

'You've got it.'

'Franklin struck me as a very able sort of bloke.' Kent remarked as they continued walking slowly round the square.

'He's ex-Military Intelligence.'

'A good background to run detective agencies. So if by chance I run into him, I'm there on private business?'

Which was typical of Kent, Paula was thinking. To dot every 'i' and cross every 't'. In the past he had proved to be enormously reliable.

'That's your best cover.' Tweed agreed.

'Did you find that odd little character Archie I mentioned to you at Bradfields?'

'Yes, we did. It was a short visit. I gathered Archie is on his way out of the country. Don't ask me where to -he's not very forthcoming.'

That's Archie. Never lets his left hand know what his right hand is doing. I rather like him. Gutsy.'

'You use him now and again for some purpose – or shouldn't I ask?' Tweed enquired.

'I wouldn't tell anyone else, but he makes a living, so he told me, by selling interesting news about important people to newspapers all over the world. Not sex scandals or any of that sort of dirt. Financial data -about some big company that's in deep water and no one else has caught on. He can spot the defect in a balance sheet as quickly as I can.'

'How did you get to know him?'

Kent paused, cocked his head on one side again, gazing first at Tweed, then at Paula.

'He got to know me. A friend in Paris couldn't give me what I was after but said Archie would contact me. For a price. I was shaving in my room in Paris at the Georges Cinq and he tapped on my door. He knew what I wanted to find out. And his fee was reasonable. Cash, of course. I don't think he believes in paying taxes.'

'You know how to contact him in Paris, then?'

'Heavens, no!' Kent chuckled. 'Not with Archie. When I go over there I'll be walking along the Rue St-Honore and suddenly he's strolling at my side. It's uncanny. I have wondered whether he has a pal at Charles de Gaulle Airport with access to the passenger manifests. That's a guess. I really like, admire him. Now, I've got the picture, so I'd better vanish. Do the Invisible Man trick – like Archie.'

'Keep in touch.'

'If you're away when I phone your office – which means probably Paula will be away, too – can I give a message to Monica?'

'Tell her anything. Keith, be careful. The Motorman is on the loose.'

'That's right, build up my confidence…'

Kent slipped behind the wheel of his Rover and was out of the square before Tweed and Paula entered the lane to the Priory.

'Could I have a word with you, sir? It's rather confidential, I gather.'

The proprietor leaned over the counter inside the hotel as though he'd been waiting for Tweed to appear. Paula, tactfully, nipped up the stairs to her room.

A moment later Eve appeared out of the lounge, holding a glass of vodka. She had changed into a green form-fitting dress, clasped at her waist with a gold belt and with a high collar.

'Come on, Tweed!' she called out. 'We're ail about to feed our faces down in the dungeon. Want me to get you a drink?'

'Not just at the moment, thank you. I'll join you soon.'

The proprietor waited until they were alone again, leaned closer to Tweed.

'The caller, a lady, emphasized I must not write down the message, that I was to pass it to you verbally when you were on your own.'

'I think I am now.'

'The caller's name was Monica. She said the destination was Geneva. She repeated the name. Geneva.'