Precipice

1

Philip walked more slowly back to the hotel. He wanted to get his thoughts into order. Arson? Murder? And he had witnessed it with Eve. He arranged the facts in sequence.

At the cliff edge he was sure he'd seen signal lights out at sea flashing, lights which were answered by what appeared to be an empty old hulk of a house. If he had seen them. Eve had denied seeing anything and already he had realized she didn't miss much.

Then the horrific fire. And the vehicle he had seen rushing away inland. If he had seen a vehicle. At the Scott Arms the burly motorcyclist who had walked past their booth. Nothing to that. Except later they'd been followed all the way back to the Priory by a motorcyclist – one solid fact which was not the product of an over-heated imagination brought on by the devilishly attractive Eve.

As he pushed open the wooden door into the lobby of the hotel he felt grateful to Tweed for warning him to say very little. Taking off his duffel coat, he walked along the corridor and peered into the bar, which was a separate room at the end. He had another shock.

Eve, seated almost with her back to him, had changed into a dark blue dress, a gold belt encircling her waist, with her long shapely legs crossed, revealed by a deep slit in the skirt. She was talking to Bob Newman, who sat listening to her, poker-faced, with a glass of Scotch in his hand.

So this was the 'help' Tweed had despatched so urgently as back-up. Newman, foreign correspondent, was a trusted and close friend of Tweed's. He had been fully vetted long ago. Now in his forties, he had taken part fully and with great effectiveness in several SIS missions.

Philip decided to leave them alone for a few minutes while he went on collecting his thoughts. He had not been seen as he slipped into the empty comfortable lounge at the rear of the hotel, sat down on a couch. I wonder what they're talking about, Philip mused.

Bob Newman had arrived earlier that evening, in the dark, after a hair-raising drive down to Wareham. Newman liked to put his foot down behind the wheel, but never had a drink before driving. Registering, he had taken his case up to his room, had thrown back the lid, quickly hung up a few jackets, then made his way down to the bar for a much-needed Scotch.

The bar, a long room with the counter on his left as he entered, was empty except for the barman. And an attractive woman wearing a dark blue dress. She had made the first move as he prepared to sit some distance from her.

'I'm on my own. Could we possibly chat together over our drinks? You're Robert Newman, the world-famous correspondent. I recognize you from pictures in the world press.'

'Not world famous. Notorious is the word,' he told her as he sat in an armchair close to her. 'Cheers!'

'I don't see many articles by you these days.' she went on, flashing him a warm smile. 'I suppose that best-selling book you wrote, Kruger: The Computer Which Failed, must have netted you a fortune. It went all over the world and is still in print.'

'It made me comfortably off.' he said shortly.

No point in revealing he was a millionaire. You didn't say that to strange women. Newman didn't say it to anyone. She was studying him.

He would be about five feet ten tall, well-built, strong face, clean-shaven with light brown hair and an aura of a man who had been about and seen the world at its best -and its worst. A very tough individual, she was thinking, but pleasant on the rare occasions when he smiled.

'I'm Eve Warner, by the way.' she remarked.

'What do you do to earn a daily crust?' he asked. 'Or are you a lady of leisure?'

'Do I look like one?' She reared up indignantly. 'I've always had to work for my living. Unlike you.' she teased.

She gave him a wide smile which struck him as wolfish. He didn't react to her dig at him. There was a long pause and he waited for her to feel she should say more. She didn't, which he found interesting.

'What sort of a job have you got, then?' he asked eventually.

'I'm with a security outfit.'

'Which one?'

'It's a bit hush-hush.'

'They all are.'

'But the pay is good and I work like a Trojan.'

'You mean you're a Trojan horse?' he shot at her.

The staring brown eyes flickered. He'd caught her off guard. She looked behind him. Philip had entered the bar, waved to her as she turned round.

'I'm buying. What's your poison, Eve? Oh, hello, Bob. Long time no see.'

'I'm staying with vodka. Another double.' Eve replied.

'A Scotch for me, Philip.' said Newman.

'Oh, you two know each other?' Eve asked, the surprise showing in her voice.

'Off and on. Here and there.' Newman replied, raising his voice slightly so Philip would hear what he'd said. 'Philip's in insurance. I was once investigating a big fraud case and he gave me a few tips. ..'

Philip blessed Newman for guessing so accurately what he had told Eve. He ordered a glass of French dry white wine for himself, brought the drinks over. Eve watched him. In his thirties, Philip was leaner than Newman, more sensitive, she guessed. Less able to cope with life. In this she guessed wrong and badly underestimated Philip. He hauled up a chair so they formed a close circle. Eve drank her fresh vodka and immediately half-emptied her glass. She lit another cigarette from the one she had been smoking. Newman had fished out a lighter but she shook her head.

'I can light my own cigarette.'

'Good for you. You'll learn how to smoke it in time.'

She gave him a cold look, clenched her full lips, then smiled.

'Talking about smoke, you've heard about the terrible fire out near Lyman's Tout?' she asked Newman.

'What fire?'

Eve rattled on about the experience she had had while driving with Philip. She talked about it as though it had been a remote event in the past.

'A bit grisly a topic for such a pleasant evening,' she concluded.

'Grisly if you say Sterndale and his son were locked up inside the place. How do you know they were locked up? That detail about the General closing the shutters himself every night sounds as though you know him,' Newman pressed.

'I can see why you were such a success as a foreign correspondent. Actually, Philip told me. Before dinner he'd met General Sterndale in this very bar. The old boy was quite talkative, I gather. I didn't see him. I was in my suite taking a shower.'

'I heard he was a very old man.' Newman commented. 'I suppose in a place like you described he'd have great log fires. One could have rolled out onto a rug and there we go. A tragedy.'

'There was a log pile, I think,' Eve ruminated, chin perched in her left hand, the right holding the vodka so it wouldn't disappear. 'Outside a barn-like effort. Stacked up against the end of the building, the one where Sterndale kept his old Bentley. The rear of the car was sticking out in the open.'

Philip stayed quiet, sipping his glass of wine. He had no recollection of the log pile Eve had described. But up there on the cliff-top his mind had been a turmoil of emotions – his growing fascination with Eve, remembrances of his dead wife, Jean. He couldn't swear there had been no log pile at the end of the barn. He couldn't be sure of anything. He wondered whether Tweed was still in his office.

'You sent Philip down to Dorset on the excuse of his needing a holiday but your real purpose was to have him on the spot to watch over General Sterndale. Now look at the mess he's in.' Paula accused.

It was ten o'clock at night in Tweed's office at Park Crescent. He sat behind his desk and studied Paula Grey without replying at once. A very attractive slim brunette, she sat behind her own desk, her eyes blazing. His closest confidante and chief assistant, she never hesitated to speak her mind, something Tweed admired. Paula, unmarried after an unhappy love affair, was in her mid-thirties.

The only other occupant, behind her own desk in a corner, was Monica, also a trusted deputy. A small woman of uncertain age, she wore her greying hair in a bun and now she listened to the duel of words, enjoying herself.

'You're partly right.' Tweed admitted. 'But he's spent too many nights and weekends in that nice house he lived in with Jean. I wanted to get him out of the atmosphere of the place. Somewhere in this country – not abroad until I'm sure he's stabilized emotionally. I certainly had no idea his trip would turn out to be so dramatic. And, as you know, Bob Newman has rushed down there at my request as back-up.'

'That will help,' Paula agreed. 'But what is this all about? How did it start?'

'In Paris.'

He rather enjoyed the look of astonishment on her face. All trace of indignation vanished.

'In Paris?' Paula repeated. 'How?'

There was a tap on the door, Tweed called out, 'Come in.' and Marler entered. The deadliest marksman in Western Europe, the new arrival, a long-time member of Tweed's staff, was of medium height, slim and smartly dressed in a shooting jacket, corduroy trousers, and brown hand-made shoes which gleamed like glass. Clean-shaven, he had a cynical smile and was known not to trust a word anyone said to him until he had triple-checked it.

'Evenin'.' he drawled in an upper-crust voice. 'Nice to see you're all having an early night for a change.'

He adopted a typical stance, leaning against a wall while he lit a king-size cigarette.

'Marler.' Tweed began, 'Paula is puzzled about what's going on. Tell her about your Paris trip. You've come here straight off the plane, I imagine?'

'Of course. Paula is puzzled? So am I.'

'Tell her what happened, for Heaven's sake.' Tweed suggested.

'Please do.' Paula urged.

'Started with a phone call from an informant of mine in Paris. Jules Fournier. I can give you his name now the poor sod is dead. We met at five o'clock – after it was dark – outside a bar in the Rue St-Honore. He told me on the phone something big was soon to break, mentioned a name which shook me up a bit. I boarded a flight this morning to suss out the meeting place. Seemed safe enough. A main street in Paris when there'd be lots of other people about. I didn't realize that could be dangerous. Black mark.'

'What name did he mention?' asked Paula.

'All in good time. It's that quick mind of yours. So bear with me. Fournier was a slip of a man with greasy hair. He'd been a totally reliable informant of mine in the past. I was leaning up against an outside window of the bar, pretending to read Figaro. Lots of people about, hurrying home from work, as I'd anticipated. I was carrying a Walther automatic in a hip holster – borrowed from a friend in Paris earlier. You never know on an assignment like that. Fournier turned up out of nowhere.'

'On foot?' asked Paula.

'That was my impression. He seemed unusually nervous, glancing over his shoulder. He spilled out his so-called information in French. Didn't make much sense. He mentioned the same name again, said the chap concerned was engaged on an operation to change the world, that he had contacts everywhere. That was when a group of motorcyclists clad in black leather, wearing crash helmets, came staggering along the pavement. I thought they were drunk. They were shouldering people out of the way, making rude signs if anyone protested. I saw them clearly, but not their faces, of course. As they came up close to Fournier one of them stumbled. I was an idiot.'

He paused, took a deep drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out in the crystal-glass ashtray Monica had pushed close to him on her desk.

'Never heard you say that before.' Paula said quietly.

'I was too intent on what Fournier was trying to tell me. He said he'd sent me a letter. Then it happened. I still curse myself.'

'What happened? I doubt if you could have prevented it. Not in rush hour on the Rue St-Honore.' Paula commented.

'These drunken roughs, as I thought, almost formed a circle round us. My alarm bells started shrieking then, but it was too late.'

'What was too late?' Tweed enquired.

'It was the chap who had stumbled – appeared to -when he cannoned into Fournier. Said, "Sorry, mate," in English. As they disappeared Fournier gave a gulp and fell forward into my arms. I grabbed him round the waist and my right hand was sticky. Blood. The stumbler had rammed a knife up under Fournier's left shoulder blade. As he sagged I checked his pulse after I'd rested him against the window. Nothing. He was dead. A very professional job.'

'What about the motorcyclist gang?' Paula asked.

'They'd disappeared like the wind. I decided I'd better do likewise. Carrying a Walther without a certificate I didn't fancy an interview with the flics – or the big boys they'd summon. I signalled to Archie and left poor Fournier after telling a woman who'd stopped he'd had a heart attack and could she get a doctor. Not a thing I could do to help my informant.'

'And who is Archie?' Paula enquired. 'Archie who?'

'His second name doesn't matter. He's probably the best informant I have in the world. He's based in Paris but flits all over the place. When I arrived at De Gaulle Airport on the way in I'd phoned Archie, asked him to be close by as back-up. He's quite a character.'

'Where was he at the moment of the murder?' Tweed interjected.

'On the far side of the street in a doorway. I doubt if he saw much, with the traffic being so heavy. But he got my message and disappeared. That's it.'

'No, it isn't.' Paula persisted. 'What was the name Fournier mentioned on the phone which startled you -and then repeated in Paris before he was murdered?'

'I suppose I heard him correctly. He was gabbling on both occasions.' Marler paused to light a fresh king-size. Outwardly calm, Paula sensed he was upset by what he regarded as a lethal failure on his part.

'Leopold Brazil, if you can believe it…'