This United state

8

'Cheers, my dear chap,' Basil Windermere called out.

Newman had just entered the ground-floor bar. He acknowledged the greeting with a wave of his hand. Windermere was perched on a bar stool. Walking slowly towards him Newman glanced at the couples dining at tables by the wall. No Marler. Quickly he averted his sweeping gaze. Marler was there, with a girl.

He's practically unrecognizable even to me, Newman thought. Marler was wearing a smoking jacket with a velvet collar. He also had a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. It was the glasses which did the trick, Newman decided – he'd never seen Marler wear them before. For some reason his raincoat was folded over the empty chair next to him.

'Just finished a drink,' Windermere said as Newman sat on the stool next to him.

He wore his usual polka-dot bow tie, a pink shirt, a Prince of Wales check suit. It should have looked wrong but instead it looked smart. Windermere always took a lot of trouble over his appearance.

'Can you hold out a few more minutes?' Windermere said.

'Hold out?'

'Before you have a drink. This place is quiet tonight. I vote we go up the street to Goodfellows. Where the action is.'

'Where the rich ladies are?'

'Got it in one, chum.'

'Then we're leaving,' Newman agreed, raising his voice.

'At the double, as Rupert would say. Mockingly.' Marler leaned across his table, spoke quietly to his companion, his wallet in his hand. He extracted a fifty-pound note, left it on the table as he spoke.

'Sorry. Warned you I might only have time for a drink. Have to rush back to the office. My pager just beeped.'

'I didn't hear anything…'

'You weren't supposed to. I'll call you.'

'Don't bother. You haven't even finished your food-'

She was talking to a blank space. Newman, trying to catch what Marler said, left his stool. Windermere was already on his way out. Marler slipped past Newman as though he didn't know him. He peered out while putting on his own coat, stiffened.

Looking down the narrow street he saw a small man wearing an old trilby hat, a shabby windcheater and denims, peering inside a dustbin. The Ear. As he watched, standing well back, Marler saw the small man start shuffling up the street at surprising speed. The little man passed him, Marler looked to his left. Basil Windermere was striding up the street, his long legs moving at an athletic pace. Marler was startled. The Ear was following Basil Windermere.

'I think this place is full of Americans,' Paula whispered.

They had just entered the luxurious interior of Goodfellows. Chandeliers were suspended from the ceilings. Each table was illuminated by a rose-coloured shade supported above an expensive, tasteful vase. Most of the tables were occupied and there was the sound of buoyant chatter mingling with the clinking of glasses.

'We have a table reserved. Name is Tweed,' her escort said to the head waiter.

'By a window, sir. I'm sure you will find it satisfactory.'

Paula sat in a chair facing in the distance the mahogany bar. She glanced round the restaurant, glad she'd taken the trouble to change. A lot of the men wore evening suits with black ties. Others were in smart business clothes. The women had all dressed up. She felt comfortable in her blue dress with its high collar and long sleeves. Round her slim waist she wore a thin gold belt. She looked at the bar again.

'I thought you were taking us out for an evening's relaxation.'

'That was the idea,' said Tweed, glancing up from the menu.

'The place is packed with Americans. That nice Ed Osborne is holding up one end of the bar. You brought us here to check up on who is in town.'

'Should I apologize?'

'Of course not.' Her tone softened. 'I'm sorry I talked like that. We have a job to do.'

'And there may not be much time left.'

Tweed returned to examining the, menu, glancing down the wine list, turning pages of the leather folder. The waiter appeared quickly and Paula ordered a dry Martini. Tweed said he'd like a glass of dry white French wine. Paula stared again at the bar.

'When you can, look at the far end of the bar. Osborne is talking to a weird man, and gestured towards our table.'

'Wonder who he is? Not sure I like the look of him.'

The individual she had drawn his attention to was short, had wide shoulders, a large head and a barrel of a chest. His brown hair was cut short and he wore an evening suit. He left the bar, sidled his way between the tables and headed straight for them.

'Hi, folks. Ed Osborne suggested I came over to give you both a big hello. I'm Jake Ronstadt.'

'Paula Grey,' said Tweed. 'And to finish the introductions I'm Tweed.'

'You have a real good taste in beautiful ladies. I sure do envy you.'

He bent down, wrapped a bearlike hand and arm round Paula's shoulders. Inwardly she thanked Heaven she was not wearing an off-the-shoulder dress. Tweed was staring at Ronstadt. When he mentioned Paula's name the small, heavy-lidded eyes had flickered. Just for a millisecond, but the reaction had been strange.

'You sound to be from New York,' Tweed commented. 'What are you doing over here? You're a long way from home.'

'Right on the button. New York.' Ronstadt released Paula from his grip, stood up. 'I'm with the Embassy.' 'Really?' Tweed persisted. 'In what capacity? What job?'

'I guess you could say I'm in public relations.' 'And what does that involve, Mr Ronstadt?'

'Jake, please,' his voice rumbled. 'I smooth the way for making friends with people the Ambassador wants to meet.'

'Well, I don't see any reason why he'd want to meet me.'

'He sure does. That's why Ed sent me over to get to know you both. And I'll tell you something else.' He lowered his voice. 'Jefferson Morgenstern, our Secretary of State, is anxious to see you.' He placed a thick finger beside his stubby nose. 'That's off the record. Know what I mean? Guess I'd better leave you folk to get on with your dinner. Enjoy.'

'I don't like that man,' Paula said when Ronstadt had left. 'He radiates physical vitality and power – but he has the smile of a crocodile.'

'Someone else for Monica to profile,' Tweed said quietly. 'I see you've spotted someone at the bar, from your expression.'

'You're not going to believe it. Bob has just walked in with Basil Windermere. They're sitting at the other end of the bar from Osborne.'

'Guess I'll start with a Scotch,' Basil said as he settled on his stool.

'Do you ever sit on anything other than a bar stool?' Newman enquired.

'Not if I can help it. You'd be surprised at how many ancient dowagers think it's fun to perch on one with me. Makes them feel young again.'

'If you say so. I'll have a Scotch too,' he told the barman. 'Basil, you mentioned a Rupert who used the phrase "at the double". Rupert Who?'

'Rupert Strangeways, of course. There's only one Rupert, son of the Strangeways. The old boy is loaded. Rupert's a drinking pal of mine.'

'On the Continent as well?'

'No.' A pause. 'Not on the Continent. Down the hatch!'

'Cheers. Do you still go to that shooting club down by the Thames?'

'Haven't been for ages. Got bored. No business there. No ladies dripping diamonds. Rupert used to come with me. He's stopped going.'

'Was he a good shot?'

'You must be joking. He hit everything except the target. I scored the occasional bull. Pure fluke. Talk of the devil – look what the tide washed up.'

A man in his thirties with a sneering expression had sat on the stool next to Basil. He wore a very expensive dinner suit, a jacket with silk-covered lapels. The barman came and stared at him.

T11 have a double Scotch. At the double. While you're at it build me another as a reserve.'

The barman gave Rupert a look which was not friendly. Newman was trying to think of a way to get Basil out of Goodfellows. When they had come in Newman spotted Tweed and Paula at their window table. He was sure Basil, with the bar as his magnet, hadn't seen them. There had to be a ploy to persuade Basil to come with him elsewhere. Newman had also observed that Ed Osborne was occupying the far end of the bar. He wondered who the short, grim-looking individual with Osborne might be. He kept staring at Newman with his hard eyes. Newman thought it was a long time since he'd seen such a ruthless-looking man. His opportunity to shift Basil came unexpectedly.

'You shouldn't talk to the barman the way you do, Rupert,' Basil told him. 'He doesn't like it.'

'Who gives a frig for a barman?'

'Not the lord of the manor, the king of creation, God's gift to the casinos in Europe.'

'How would you like this drink poured over your crummy suit?' Rupert snarled.

'Time to go, find fresh fields,' Newman said firmly, gripping Basil's arm.

'I think you're right,' Basil agreed. He glanced at Rupert. 'You don't get the best type of person in here.'

Rupert was lifting his glass when Newman hauled Basil off the stool. Just in time. Rupert's double Scotch flooded the stool Basil had just vacated. Newman hustled Basil away from the bar, between tables and out of the entrance. The cold air hit Basil, who stumbled, swayed.

'Time to go home,' Newman insisted. 'We can have another drink there…'

An hour and a half later Tweed paid the bill and left the club with Paula. They had come by taxi and Tweed was looking for another cab. Of course, there was no sign of one.

'We'll find a cab and I'll see you safely home,' he said.

'That isn't necessary. It's out of your way. You can see me into a taxi and it will take me straight home.' 'Are you sure?'

'I'm certain.'

Tweed was in two minds. His instinct was to drop her off at her flat in the Fulham Road. On the other hand he wanted to go back to his office. He felt sure Monica would be working on her profiles into the early hours. He was impatient to see what she had come up with – and to add to her list the name of Jake Ronstadt. He had sensed something disturbing about the American's personality.

'That was odd,' Paula remarked, pulling her coat more tightly round her against the chilly night, 'Rupert, of all people, turning up at the bar.'

'He probably haunts places like that at night. Especially a new one like Goodfellows, only opened two months ago. On the lookout for new girl friends. You told me Mrs Belloc, down at Irongates, made a reference to his harem.'

'He's a typical rich man's son. An idler and a wastrel. He seemed to know Windermere.'

'Like attracting like. Both of them are worthless.'

'At one moment it looked like turning ugly,' Paula reflected. 'Bob certainly moved fast, getting Windermere out of the club.'

'Here's a cab.'

Tweed flagged it down. He opened the rear door and Paula dived inside, glad to get into some warmth. Tweed gave the driver a banknote to cover the fare and the tip.

'It's your job to see my friend gets back safely to the address I've given you.'

'With a tip like that, mate, I'd take her safely to Singapore,' the driver assured Tweed.

'I must be tired,' Paula called out to Tweed after she had lowered the window. 'I forgot to thank you for a marvellous dinner. I feel so relaxed.' She leaned out, kissed him on the cheek. 'Thank you again.' She looked down at the pavement. 'And don't get wet – it must have rained when we were inside.'

'Good night. See you in the morning.'

Newman had two surprises when he steered Basil outside Goodfellows. His companion suddenly straightened up, walked a few very steady paces before he turned back.

'Aren't you coming? You know my flat is just off Regent Street. Takes only a few minutes to hoof it there.'

Newman's second surprise was when he looked across the street at another restaurant. Sitting at the window table by himself, still wearing the horn-rims, was Marler. What on earth was he up to?

'I said, aren't you coming?' Basil called out again. 'Bloody cold hanging around out here.'

'That flat of yours must be damned expensive,' Newman commented as he hurried to walk alongside his companion.

Basil, striding along, showed no sign that he was affected in any way by the amount of alcohol he had consumed. He was even humming a tune.

'Awfully damned expensive,' he agreed in a lordly way. 'What does it matter? I've borrowed it from a wealthy lady who has gone abroad.'

'Do you ever buy anything yourself?' Newman wanted to know.

'Not if I can help it. Here we ire. Down this side street.'

Newman had the uncanny feeling they were being followed. He glanced back once. Couldn't see any sign of another human being. Odd. His instinct in that direction had always been right before. They walked rapidly down the narrow street. It was deserted. Basil stopped by his front door, felt for his keys. Newman turned to see if he could fit key into lock first time. He did without hesitation.

'Bob,' he said, turning on his heel. 'Now we've got here I'm feeling a bit tired.'

'Go straight up to bed,' Newman urged, relieved he wouldn't have to spend any more time with him. 'You look fresh but…'

'I was up till 4 am last night – that is, this morning. Do you mind? And thanks for coming with me.'

'Off to beddy-byes.'

Basil disappeared inside, closed the door. Newman felt spots of rain on his face. He swung round and Marler was only a few paces away. Newman grinned, punched Marler on his shoulder.

'Thought I had a tail.'

'You did. But it wasn't me.'

'Who the hell was it, then?'

'The Ear. He's been tracking Windermere all evening. I just wonder why.'

'Where is the Ear?'

'Ahead of us. He slipped past you when you watched Windermere opening his door. You never hear him. You rarely see him. And we're going to get soaked. Let's walk on, find a cab.'

They turned up the collars of their raincoats. It was very quiet. Only the patter of the rain and the squelch of their shoes on the pavement. Newman stopped suddenly, staring ahead. A small figure wearing a trilby hat appeared out of nowhere, shuffling away from them.

'I wonder who that is,' Newman mused.

'That is the Ear. Maybe he wants to talk to me. Now he is slowing down. Why?'

He looked up as he spoke and thunderclouds seemed almost to touch the top of the flat roofs of the terrace houses, most turned into flats, one of which was occupied by Basil Windermere. A brilliant flash of lightning was followed instantly by a deafening clap of thunder.

'Under cover,' said Marler. 'The Ear has darted into the shelter of a doorway.'

They had just reached their own shelter, close to a front door and under an overhang of a stone beam, when the cloudburst enveloped the street. Rain sluiced down at a slanting angle like a curtain of fine wires. Rivers of water ran down the street's gutters, the top of drainpipes overflowed, sending cascades of water down.

'That's why the Ear paused,' said Marler. 'He knew what was coming.'

Frequently he glanced out to make sure the Ear hadn't moved out of his shelter. The cloudburst ceased as quickly as it had erupted. They heard the storm drifting away to the east. Marler peered out again, stood stock-still.

'What's the matter?' Newman asked.

'The Ear is coming this way. I see now why he really paused.'

'Why?'

'Four men coming up the street this way. The Ear may be the target.'

It was the first time Newman had heard alarm in Marler's voice. He followed him, looked along the street. The small man was shuffling swiftly towards them. He must have recognized Marler, who had removed his glasses. He gestured over his shoulder, dived into another doorway.

Beyond him was a sinister cluster of four black opened umbrellas, feet walking under them. It wasn't possible when Newman first saw them to identify who was approaching – the cluster had the large umbrellas lowered, the feet steadily advancing beneath the shallow black cones. Then the front two umbrellas were elevated.

Each of the two visible men held handguns. Newman saw their weapons clearly as they passed under a street lamp. Soon they would reach the doorway where the Ear was hiding. He grabbed for his Smith amp; Wesson.

'Not wanted,' Marler snapped. 'Leave this to me.'

He took something out of his raincoat pocket. Newman saw it was a grenade. Marler waved a hand sideways at the Ear, who responded instantly, diving inside another doorway. Crouching down, Marler thrust his right hand, holding the grenade, behind him. Pressing a button, he rolled the object at high speed along the pavement.

It shot forward and the four umbrellas stopped moving. The object reached them, arriving in the middle of the group. There was a loud crack and the four men panicked, running along the pavement until they disappeared round a corner, their umbrellas waving madly.

'It was a dud,' Newman said. 'It should have killed them all.'

'Hardly.'

Marler was grinning as he stood up. He pulled his rain-covered coat away from his knees and waited for the Ear to reappear.

'What the hell was it?' Newman demanded.

'One of the new devices cooked up by the boffins in the basement back at Park Crescent. Looks like a grenade, it sounds like a grenade when it goes off. It explodes into tiny fragments you'd have trouble finding. It also contains a glue-like liquid which sprays all over the targets. They won't know what it is – probably be sure it's some kind of poison, which it isn't. I don't think we wanted dead bodies sprawled all over the pavement. We would have had a problem.

'Well, it worked. The thugs appear to have gone for good. They're probably rushing back to the Embassy to get checked by a doctor.'

'Here comes the Ear,' Marler observed. 'I'll introduce him as a friend.'

The little man was shuffling towards them. He glanced over his shoulder twice. A cautious chap, Newman thought – which was probably why he had survived so long. He was close to them when he crossed the street and looked back again to see round the corner where the attackers had vanished. A shot rang out. One single shot.

The Ear staggered, stumbled against the wall of a house, slid down the wall, his legs extended in front of him. He lay slumped there, very still, as Marler ran to him with Newman at his heels, the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. Marler bent over the prone form. A red patch was blossoming on the forehead. He opened his mouth, staring at Marler. Blood gurgled.

'Basil…' Another grim gurgle. 'Schwarz…'

Then nothing. Marler checked his neck pulse. He stood up slowly, gazed at Newman. There was sorrow in his eyes – something Newman had never seen before.

'He's dead,' Marler said slowly. 'Not one of the thugs – he looked back towards us a fraction of a second before the bullet hit him. From the angle he was facing, the shot came from the roof of those houses. The Phantom.'

'I'll kill that bastard when the moment comes,' Newman said.

'No, you won't.' Marler placed a hand on Newman's arm. 'He's my meat.'