Rhinoceros

CHAPTER 12

They had another battle when they arrived at Tweed's flat on two floors, ground and first. Tweed told Paula where to find his keys, she fished them out of his pocket, unlocked the two Banhams, then the Chubb. Marler had held on to Tweed and Paula took the other arm and they entered the hall.

'On the couch in the sitting room,' said Paula.

'No. Upstairs in my bedroom… be comfortable there,' Tweed insisted.

'For God's sake,' Marler burst out. 'You don't want to climb more stairs.'

'I said my bedroom. I can make it myself.'

Tweed released himself from their grip, took hold of the banister with both hands, began to haul himself up. Paula and Marler leapt forward, grabbed his arms again, hoisted him up.

Inside the large bedroom Tweed sat on the edge of the bed, bent down to take off a shoe. Paula took over the job and took off bom shoes, his jacket, tie, loosened his shirt collar. Between them they had him undressed, in pyjamas and under the sheets, blanket and old-fashioned eiderdown when the door bell rang.

'That will be Dr Abbott,' said Paula. 'Go down and let him in, please, Marler…'

Tweed had flopped his head on the pillow, closed his eyes. Then he opened them and, despite Paula's protests, eased himself up on one elbow.

'My pad,' he demanded.

'You don't need that now,' Paula said firmly.

'It's in my pocket. Put it in the bedside drawer. Then get a fountain pen out of the other pocket…'

'You're not going to work…'

'Put the pad and pen in the drawer. That's an order.' As she did so he continued talking. 'No one is to know about this silliness. Anyone phoning, I'm away, can't say when I'll be back. Tell all the staff. That's another order…'

He flopped back on the pillow as Dr Abbott came in accompanied by another man carrying a machine. Abbott had a brisk manner, an amiable smile. He knew Tweed well as a friend. And he knows how to handle him, Paula thought as Abbott spoke.

'What's all this nonsense? Decided to take a holiday at long last, Tweed?'

Paula went downstairs to join Marler in the living room while the examination took place. She raised her eyes to heaven as she sat down.

'He'll make one hell of a patient.' She told Marler what Tweed had said. 'See what I mean.'

'That's what keeps Tweed going. Iron will-power…'

Abbott joined them about fifteen minutes later while his assistant went out to their car, carrying the machine. Paula also knew Abbott.

'He's got a virulent fever, a form of flu, but I suspect it's a rare strain. Has he mixed with anyone from abroad recently?'

'Yes. He toured the riot areas with us. Every conceivable nationality.'

'That's where he's picked it up, a quick-acting strain which I yet have to identify. I've given him an antibiotic and he's fallen asleep. I wanted him to be put into a clinic, but there's no budging him. Says he prefers his own bed, that he won't stand for a lot of chattering nurses fussing round him. Someone should be with him.'

'I can sleep here on that couch. You've met Monica -she can come here to relieve me.'

'Monica is a very capable woman. If there's an emergency – I don't expect one – whichever of you is on duty must call me at once. Now I'm going. I want to get the results of certain tests.'

'You'll keep me informed I hope?'

'Of course – or Monica if she's here. I have the phone number. He must not get out of bed. I slipped a bedpan under it.'

'Dr Abbott, how long do you think this will take until he has recovered completely?'

'The usual question.' He smiled. 'I never guess. But I will tell you it could be a long haul…'

Marler stood up when they were alone. He slipped on his topcoat.

'I'm obeying orders. I'm off to my flat to pack a few things, then I'll trawl Ebury Street, find that place where someone tried to bump off Lisa. I may stay in the area for several days. Something has just struck you.'

'It has. I wonder where the devil that Mark Wendover has got to?'

It was a quiet time in The Hangman's Noose. Herb was polishing the bar counter when Mark Wendover walked in, asked for a dry Martini. Herb looked dubious. 'I get a hint of American from the way you speak.' 'British mother, American father. Spent half my life here. Educated here and in the States. Get the picture. What's the problem?'

'Do my best, but Americans are perticular about Martinis. Saw you mixing it with those rioting swine,' Herb remarked as he took great care over the Martini. 'Saw you with a pal of mine, too. I'm Herb.'

'I'm Mark.' Wendover paused. I'm looking for a man called Delgado. Have a hunch his pad is somewhere round here.'

'You try your luck with some dangerous villains. Don't know where Delgado kips down – but I've seen him prowling round 'ere quite a bit. Especially down Reefers Wharf. That's across the street to the left. Any good? Don't mind if you won't pay for it.'

Wendover had just sipped his Martini. He licked his lips, took another sip, then raised the glass to the barman.

'This is the best Martini I've had since I was in New York. They couldn't do any better over there.'

'Thanks. Tries to oblige.'

Herb started polishing the bar again. Wendover had hoped his genuine compliment about the drink would get Herb talking but the British were careful what they said to visitors. He tried another tack.

'Just between us, the reason I'm after Delgado is I'm CIA.' He produced the folder he had deliberately omitted to hand in when he'd left Langley. The open folder he held up showed his photograph. He slipped it back into his pocket. 'I need to know as much about him as I can.'

'That's just beween you and me. The CIA business. And so is what I'm going to tell you. Delgado is an ugly customer. He was in 'ere one day, chatting to a pal at this very bar. I've got good 'earing. He said "I wish we can find out more on Rhinoceros".'

'That's an animal,' Wendover commented.

'I know. But 'e made it sound more like a person. Which I thought was strange. I s'pose that's why it stuck in my mind.'

Wendover left the pub, headed for Reefers Wharf. On his way he went into a phone box, one of the old red boxlike types, which he preferred to the new modernistic horrors. Newman answered the phone.

'Mark here, Bob. Ever heard of a guy called Rhinoceros?'

'Where did you hear that name?'

Newman's tone was sharp. At least, thought Mark, I now know it is someone's name. He asked to speak to Tweed. Always talk to the top man, or as high as you can go, had been Wendover's experience.

'He's not here. He's away on a trip. Don't know when he'll be back. Now, once again, where did you hear that name? And where the hell are you? With this outfit you work as a member of a team…'

Newman was talking into nothing. Mark had broken the connection. He'd try to get hold of Tweed later. At the moment he wanted to explore Reefers Wharf. He paused at the entrance to a very wide street leading towards the distant river.

There were very large five-storey buildings with the fifth storey in the sloping roof. The buildings furthest away had a modern look, renovated by a so-called architect in a feeble attempt to preserve the original warehouses' appearance. They had large opaque blue-glass windows you couldn't see through. They reminded Wendover vaguely of a miniature version of Park Avenue in New York.

The buildings closest to him had not been touched. They were still the warehouses that had stood there for heaven knew how many years. Their walls of slatted wood had a decrepit look, as though uninhabited. The dormer windows perched on the sloping fifth floor looked as though at any moment they might slide into the street.

He walked a short distance down the street, paused. The sun had come out, was a blinding glare on the buildings, but on his side of the street were dark shadows, alleys leading off, very narrow, cobbled and twisting. Then he saw Delgado.

The giant, holding a bottle in one hand by its neck, was walking unsteadily towards him on the sunny side. Wendover slipped into the shadows of an alley, peered out. Delgado had passed the renovated buildings, which Wendover could now see were occupied by companies, was strolling past the old warehouses.

A single-decker bus came crawling along the street, hiding Delgado from view. When it was near the top of the street Mark could no longer see Delgado. He had vanished into one of the old warehouses. But which one? It could have been any one of four. He went back to The Hangman's Noose, told Herb what had happened.

'I'll have to hang around here until I spot him again. Maybe for days. Know anywhere I can get get a room?'

'Here. Upstairs. The one I gave Lisa, the attractive girl I saw you with during the riots. A taxi arrived this morning to collect her case.' Herb looked at the American. Tall, fair-haired, with a large body to match. But it was the clothes Herb was looking at. 'Hope you don't mind me sayin' so – but you're too smartly dressed to mooch around here for days. You stand out from the crowd. There's a shop just down the road called Wingers. They'd have the kit you need.'

'Thanks. I'll go there now…'

He returned later, holding a carrier bag with his new suit inside. Herb looked at his new get-up approvingly. Mark was clad in a shabby camouflage jacket, well-worn denims, a Para's discarded red beret on his head.

'You'll do. I'll show you the room…'

Marler had found the flat where Helga Trent had been murdered. It had not been difficult. Police tape still cordoned off the building and on the first floor he noted two bullet holes in a window.

Earlier, carrying a hold-all, he had found a 'hotel' – no more than a boarding house – but it had a small bar. It also had a vacant room which he'd taken.

Now, just before dusk, he stepped over the tape, rang the bell of the flat. A middle-aged woman with a disagreeable expression and suspicious eyes opened the door, stood in the entrance like a guardian, beefy arms folded.

'Are you the landlady?' Marler enquired.

'I'm the owner, if that's anything to do with you.'

'I'm a friend of the late Helga Trent.' Marler smiled and when he did so the opposite sex usually took to him. 'I would very much appreciate it if we could have a few minutes' chat about her…'

'You're another bloody reporter. I can smell them a mile off.'

'No, I'm not. Just a few minutes of-'

'Go jump off Beachy Head.'

She slammed the door in his face. He heard her bolt and lock it. Marler decided he wasn't going to get far with this paragon of the female species. He went back to his hotel and into the bar. Officially he was a solar-energy salesman. He didn't think he would run into anyone else in that line of business.

A peroxide blonde wearing a miniskirt sat on a stool next to him. She lit a cigarette, looked him up and down.

'Care to buy me a drink, darling?'

'You live round here?'

'I might.'

'I don't think you do.'

'Bloody well drink on your own.'

She got off her stool, walked away swinging her hips, then out of the front door. Marler was trying to contact someone who knew the area.

He had to wait five days before he struck lucky. It was dark outside when a big man in a shabby suit walked in as though he owned the place, sat on a stool. He shouted his order at the girl behind the bar.

'Double Scotch. Neat. No muckin' about.'

'Coming up now, Mr Barton.'

'You seen anythin' of that girl with the long red hair I asked you about last night? Slim, good figure, a real looker.'

'No,' the girl said as she served the drink. 'She hasn't come in here.'

I'll pay for that drink,' Marler said suddenly.

He moved to the stool next to Mr Barton, noticed he had very large hands with hair growing on their backs. Lifting his glass, Barton turned to study Marler with hostile eyes. The girl had moved to the far end of the counter, now Marler had given her the money for the drink.

'An attractive girl with long red hair,' Marler whispered. I'm looking for her too. I'll pay for information. What do you know about her?'

'Let's go outside,' the big man suggested. 'Walls 'ave ears 'ere. ..'

It seemed very dark outside. The street was ill-lit. They came to a corner, walked round it. Barton was gradually dropping behind Marler. Out of nowhere a youth on a skateboard was speeding towards them. Marler felt something hard and round rammed into his back.

'This is a gun,' Barton growled menacingly. 'So you tell me what you know about the red-haired tart…'

A car backfired. The youth glanced back over his shoulder, wasn't looking where he was going, cannoned into Marler who twisted his body as he was hurled back against Barton. He stamped his foot down with great force on Barton's foot. The big man dropped his gun, limped, groaned. Marler stooped swiftly, picked up the gun. It was a. 455 Colt automatic. From its weight Marler knew it was loaded, with seven rounds probably. Charming. Barton, still limping, yelled out the words.

'Come an' 'elp me, Skinny…'

Marler slammed his attacker across the jaw with the barrel of the Colt. Off balance, the big man tumbled down the steps into an area below street level, hit his skull against a brick wall, sagged down, moaning. Marler switched his gaze to the small lean streak of a thug charging across from the opposite side of the street. In his right hand he gripped a flick knife, the murderous blade exposed. Marler waited until he was close, on the pavement, looked behind him, called out.

'Take him, Larry…'

The oldest trick in the world but it worked. As Skinny looked back Marler used the barrel of the Colt again, but this time he aimed it at the side of Skinny's head. It was a businesslike blow and threw Skinny hurtling down the steps after Barton. He remained still at the bottom. Marler checked the street. Empty. Skateboard had long since vanished round a corner. Marler went down the steps.

He checked Skinny's pulse, which was beating steadily, but he was unconscious. Lifting him out of the way, Marler dumped him in a far corner, returned to Barton, still moaning. He bent down, aimed the Colt.

'What were you going to do to the red-haired lady?'

'Rough her up…'

'Open your mouth or I'll blow your head off.'

Terrified, Barton flopped open his mouth as blood dripped from his jaw. Marler shoved the muzzle of the Colt inside the open mouth. Barton's eyes nearly popped out.

'Again,' said Marler, his tone steely. 'What were you going to do with her? Three seconds and I'll pull the trigger.'

He removed the muzzle from the big man's mouth so he could speak. It took him half a minute to get the words out and then they were a mumble.

'We was goin' to kill her.'

'Right. Who paid you to do it?'

'For Gawd's sake. Mister… don't know. One like us… wore dark glasses. Paid cash…'

Marler was convinced Barton didn't know. In any case, the man who had instructed him, who had paid the cash, would be only part of a chain, extending back who knew where. He looked carefully at Barton. The big man was lying motionless, his eyes half closed, a real mess. And Skinny was out for die count.

Climbing back up the steps, he walked a short distance away, took out his mobile, called Buchanan's private line. The Superintendent answered at once.

'Yes?'

'Marler here.' He had already noted the street name, the number of the house above the area. He gave them to Buchanan. 'In the area at that address you'll find two criminals, knocked about a bit, waiting for your collection by a patrol car…'

'Hang on.'

Marler knew Buchanan was already dispatching the patrol car. He spoke quickly so he could get away before the police arrived.

'The big fellow is Barton, if that's his real name. The other one has the nickname Skinny. Barton admitted they tried to kill a certain girl, muffed it…'

'Knocked about a bit, you said. Your work?'

'Have to go now. Run out of coins…'

He hurried back to the hotel, went up to his room, locked the door. About five minutes later he heard the sound of a police siren. Taking out his mobile, he called Newman at Park Crescent, explained what had happened.

'I can't keep out of trouble, can I? Now, how is Tweed?'

'Bearing up, I gather. Not the easiest patient in the world.'

'Good for him. And Lisa?'

'Still at the clinic. The consultant doesn't seem worried, but like Tweed it could be a slow recovery.'

'OK. By the way, when I spoke to Buchanan I didn't let slip we even knew Lisa, didn't mention her name.'

'That's the way Tweed would want it, I'm sure. Go out and find some more thugs you can chat to…'

'I'm sorry I'm late relieving Monica,' Paula said as she sat down by Tweed's bedside. 'How are you feeling?'

'Better.' Tweed was perched up against a pillow. 'I think the first antibiotic Master gave me is doing the trick. I won't need the second one.'

'Yes, you will. Master says that's the vital one. Behave yourself.'

'You've been up to something. You're an hour late. You're never late except for a very good reason. Tell me,' Tweed snapped.

'All right. I thought you'd get it out of me. Since Monica took over this afternoon I've been trawling London – in the hope I'd see something – or someone – which would tell us what is going on. Partly walking, partly moving from area to area by taxi. I may have struck gold this evening,' Paula ruminated.

'Get to the point.'

'A taxi dropped me near Santorini's, that expensive restaurant with a platform projecting over the river. I saw the Brig. – Lord Barford – and his disgusting son, Aubrey. The one I had lunch with. They had just got out of a taxi and Aubrey was carrying a large suitcase plastered with labels. The sort of thing you collect travelling abroad…'

'I know,' Tweed said impatiently.

'I got the distinct impression they'd just got back from Heathrow – because of the suitcase. Which one made the trip to somewhere I don't know – Aubrey could have been carrying his father's suitcase. They went into Santorini's.'

'And?'

'I had a mad idea,' Paula informed him. 'I followed them in a few minutes later. They'd be in the restaurant by then. I looked at the hat-check girl's cubbyhole and saw the Brig.'s suitcase with the labels showing. Went up to her and told her Mr Swanton had sent me because he owed them ten pounds on his dinner bill. Held out my hand, full of ten pound coins, reached over the counter, pretended to drop them by mistake on her floor. She bent down to scoop them up and I took a pic of the suitcase with my non-flash camera, then took a taxi back to Park Crescent where they developed the print.'

'Which you've got with you.'

'Yes. I really think this can wait…'

'Give.'

She handed over the print, took a magnifying glass out of her shoulder bag, handed that to Tweed. He studied the print.

'Hotels in Brussels, Berlin, Paris and Stockholm. Those were the places Aubrey, while drunk in Martino's, told you his father visited.'

'Exactly.'

'But it looks as though one label has been removed.'

'It has,' Paula agreed. 'And it must have been recently. Those labels stick like the devil if they're left for a while.'

'The missing label must show where he has flown back from. Today. Why the secrecy?'

'I wondered that.' She watched as he placed the print in the drawer of his bedside table. 'You haven't been working on your pad, I hope?'

'Added one name. Rhinoceros.'

M. Bleu had left France. Following the car with his target, Louis Lospin, at the wheel, he had been surprised when the car headed in a different direction, eventually arriving at the airport.

After parking his car in a crowded multi-storey, Lospin had, carrying his bag, checked in for a flight to Corsica. Bleu had shrugged, realizing Lospin was taking a holiday. Air travel did not appeal to him this time – the airport swarmed with security men. The President was due in on a flight. Bleu had left his motorcycle in the multi-storey, had taken a taxi to the Gare du Nord.

From there he caught an express to Amsterdam. He would have been very difficult to detect, let alone to follow. And he had not even considered waiting in Paris for Lospin to return. He could have become conspicuous, been intercepted by French security.

Arriving in Amsterdam, he took a taxi to a hotel near Schiphol Airport. Registering under one of the several names in his collection of different passports, he went up to his room, phoned the airport for flights to Britain the following day. To his surprise he found he could catch an early evening flight to Heathrow if he left the hotel immediately. He did so.