The Greek Key

35

'You're not going to like this,' Monica, who had rushed into Tweed's office, paused for breath. In her hands she clutched a copy of the Evening Standard.

'You're back early from lunch,' said Tweed as Paula jerked her head up from the file she was studying.

'It's awful,' Monica went on, sinking into her seat. 'I know how you liked her.'

'What is it?' Tweed asked, very alert.

'It's in the stop press. A Mrs Stuart Kearns, staying at the Stafford Hotel, was killed by a hit-and-run driver early this morning.'

'Show me.' Tweed's tone was Weak. He read the item, looked at Monica. 'Let's get this in the right sequence. Which hotel did you track those three down to? Something like a theatre.'

'Barrymore, Kearns and Robson are staying at the Lyceum Hotel. A modest place just off the Strand, close to Trafalgar Square.'

'And it says here the so-called accident occurred in St James's Street. Not very far from the Lyceum. Phone up the place. I want to know if they're still there.'

He stood up, shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets, began pacing up and down close to the window, his brow furrowed.

'They've checked out,' Monica told him as she put down the phone. 'All three left mid-morning. No forwarding address.'

'Get Chief Superintendent Walton of Special Branch. Urgently.'

'Why did you say "so-called accident"?' enquired Paula.

'Because I don't believe it. Jill Kearns had all her marbles. That newspaper item says it happened before seven in the morning. How much traffic is about at that hour?'

He broke off to take the call. That you, Bill? Tweed here.'

'You on scrambler? Good.' Walton's voice was its normal buoyant tone. 'Are you still forging my Special Branch identity cards in that Engine Room? I don't know why I let you get away with it.'

'You supplied the original model for copying,' Tweed reminded him. 'We agreed total secrecy could only be maintained if we did the job. And if anyone queries one they'll be put through to you.'

'Someone has queried one,' Walton warned him. 'Recently. A Colonel Barrymore. I told him you belonged to my department, that he'd better answer any questions you put to him. Very supercilious, he was. Plummy-voiced type. Now, what can I do for you?'

'Early this morning a Mrs Stuart Kearns, staying at the Stafford Hotel, was killed by an alleged hit-and-run driver. There's a stop press in the Standard. I think it was murder. I'm going to give you details of three possible suspects. They were staying last night at the Lyceum Hotel off the Strand. I'd like you to phone Chief Inspector Jarvis of Homicide at the Yard. Warn him, but don't mention me.'

'Why not?' Walton enquired. 'You and Bernard were pals during your old days at the Yard.'

'Because I need to maintain a low profile. Here are the details, including the addresses of the three men. Incidentally, they've left the Lyceum…'

He read out where Barrymore, Robson and Kearns lived on Exmoor. Walton said OK, he'd call the Yard. Say he'd had a tip from a very reliable source. And they must have lunch one day.

'What are you up to?' asked Paula when Tweed had finished the call.

'Pressure. I want maximum pressure put on those three. It's possible one – or all – of them will break. Though I doubt it.'

'You really think they ran down poor Jill?'

Tweed began cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. 'It's a long coincidence. The morning Jill is killed the three of them are staying at a hotel about half a mile away.'

'But you moved her to the Stafford for safety – and they only knew she always stayed at Brown's. How could any of them have found her?'

'I'm afraid I blundered. I may even be responsible for her death. By mistake, anyway. I think she was being watched during that afternoon I went to Brown's for tea. Someone got frightened of what she might have told me. I suspect I was followed when I walked up Albemarle Street and didn't notice.'

That's ridiculous,' burst out Monica. 'You always check…'

'On the other hand,' Paula said quietly, 'I was following her for three days. I could have been spotted. And I was with Tweed when he visited all three men on Exmoor.'

'Pure surmise.'

Tweed dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. Secretly he was pretty sure she was right. But it was not something he wanted on Paula's conscience.

'Then,' Paula continued, 'they would have seen her change her hotel to the Stafford. And I bet that was a morning habit of hers on Exmoor. To stroll over the moor. Always at the same time.'

'Forget it!' Tweed snapped. 'We have to decide what to do next.'

'What do you suggest?' asked Monica.

She sensed an atmosphere of depression in the room. Worse, a mood of guilt that one – or both – of her colleagues had caused the killing of Jill Kearns. Paula had sunk into a brooding silence, so unlike her normal buoyancy. It was Tweed who changed the mood.

'We take action. Monica, call The. Anchor at Porlock Weir. Tell Butler – or Nield – to call me back urgently. Hell know what that means – use a public phone box. I want to find out if Barrymore and Co. have returned to Exmoor, Then we'll move.*

'How?' asked Paula, lifting her head.

'You and I will drive down there at once. Partridge was murdered on Exmoor while those three were there. Jill was murdered in London – while they were here. I'm going to ask each of them a lot of tough questions.'

Monica was already dialling The Anchor. She spoke for a short time, then put down the phone. 'Both of them are out,' she told Tweed.

'Keep trying at intervals until you get one of them. I want to be at their throats before they've had time to settle in.'

Monica nodded. Again she didn't like the vehemence with which Tweed had spoken. If he'd still been a Chief Superintendent at Scotland Yard in Homicide, they'd have taken him off the case. Too much personal involvement.

Zurich, Arthur Beck could pass in the street for any profession. Except that of Chief of Federal Police. In his mid-forties, he wore a light blue business suit, a cream shirt, a blue tie which carried a kingfisher emblem woven into the fabric. Plump-faced, his most prominent feature was his alert grey eyes beneath thick dark brows the same colour as his hair.

He sat alone in an office at Zurich police headquarters with a window overlooking the River Limmat, the university perched on the hill rising steeply from the opposite shore. Lifting the phone, he dialled Kales' number. The Greek answered quickly.

'Beck here. I have some data on your Anton Gavalas. Ready'.''

'That was quick. It was only yesterday. Go ahead.'

'Anton disembarked from the Athens flight, caught a taxi to the Hotel Sehweizerhof which faces the main station. He had early dinner, then wandered down the Bahnhofstrasse to the lake. He sat on a seat watching the boats come and go. No one approached him. He made no phone calls from the hotel – I found that out after he'd left.'

'Left for where?"

'Let me tell you in my own way,' the Swiss said precisely. 'I checked with the porter after he'd returned from his walk. He went straight to bed. This morning he has a leisurely breakfast. Again, no one approached him. Then he leaves by cab for Kloten Airport, where he arrived. A model citizen. Mr Anton Gavalas. Always well-dressed. Walking down the Bahnhofstrasse he could be mistaken for a Swiss – except for his dark suntan.'

'What happened next?' Kalos asked.

'He produces a first-class ticket, checks in his luggage for the SR 690 flight bound for Lisbon…'

'Lisbon?' Kalos sounded surprised.

'Lisbon in Portugal,' Beck continued genially. 'The 12.10 p.m. that reaches Lisbon at 1.55 p.m. That's Portuguese time. Which means you can alert someone in Lisbon to meet the flight if you wish. End of report.'

'I'm very grateful.' Kalos paused. 'It almost sounds as though you followed him everywhere yourself.'

'But I did. My dear Kalos. when you're trapped behind a desk in Berne most of the time, reading files, it does you good to get out on the streets again. Stops you getting rusty – your mind going to sleep." He added the last bit in case Kalos' English was not up to the colloquialism.

'I really am grateful,' Kalos repeated. 'I owe you one.'

'Indeed you do. But that's for the future. Good hunting…'

In his Athens office Kalos put down the phone and mopped his forehead. The heatwave was getting worse. There was a real shortage of mineral water.

Lisbon? Kalos was baffled. He added the data to his secret file. What could the connection be? And he had no way of checking, no link with Portugal he could use without Sarris' cooperation.