Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  Tweed was telling Newman he had found Lisa an extraordinary personality. He described her, emphasized her intelligence, voiced his puzzlement as to what her real role was and why she was so anxious to meet him again.

  'Nearing the summit,' Newman warned. 'Didn't you tell me Pole said that the road levelled out, started to go down and Rondel's house was on the left?'

  'He did,' Tweed confirmed.

  They crested the rise suddenly. Newman slowed down and behind them Paula, gazing through her windscreen, almost gasped. On the other side of the Downs a vast panorama came into view. To east and west were vast slopes of rolling hills. A distance away to the south the sea, caught in the moonlight, glittered like an immense lake of mercury sweeping into the Channel. The road began to drop. They pulled up. Newman freewheeled a few more yards, stopped. He left the engine purring to keep the interior warm, jumped out after Tweed and joined Paula, who had already left her car.

  'There it is,' said Newman. 'Weird-looking. Expensive.'

  'Look at the name,' said Paula.

  A large aluminium plate was engraved with the name in front of a high wire fence. Eagle's Nest. Two high wire gates barred the entrance to the curving drive beyond. At the far end of the drive it turned towards a very large white house built of stone. The architecture was surreal, like a collection of white blocks or cubes perched at different levels on top of each other. To one side rose a tall round tower. The entire edifice was located deep inside an old quarry, its steep sides overhanging the house.

  'Look!' Paula called out. 'There's something emerging from the round tower.'

  'I've seen it,' Tweed replied.

  Somewhere behind them was the muffled sound of a machine. Paula glanced back - just in time to see the crouched figure of a rider on a motorcycle. The machine was steadily negotiating its way up a steep path which, she guessed, led to the top of the Down overlooking the house.

  'That's Harry Butler,' Newman reassured her. 'He insisted on guarding my rear all the way from London . . .'

  He stopped speaking as a slim mast, like a submarine's periscope, its top a tangle of wired dishes, continued elevating until it was about twenty feet above the rim of the Down. Paula nudged Tweed.

  'Someone's coming along the drive at a rate of knots. Looks like an old woman carrying a rifle.'

  The hurrying figure appeared with astonishing speed on the far side of the closed gates. She stopped, her weapon, actually a shotgun, aimed at them. Her voice was harsh.

  'Who are you? Private property. Why are you here?'

  'Which question would you like me to answer first?' Tweed enquired mildly.

  She was wearing an old heavy 'dark coat. It almost reached her ankles and Paula wondered how she'd moved so fast in such a garment. She was hawk-nosed, bony-faced, in her sixties, a menacing figure.

  'Stop pointing that thing at us,' Newman ordered. 'Shotguns can go off almost by themselves. Want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder?'

  'Can't frighten me,' she snarled, but she swivelled the gun to a port position and it fired harmlessly into the air.

  'See what I mean,' Newman shouted at her. 'Who are you?'

  'Mrs Grimwood. The . . . 'ousekeeper ... if you must know.'

  The shot had echoed a long distance in the cold night air, would have been heard inside the strange house. Tweed was ignoring the verbal confrontation, his eyes glued to the tall mast. Seconds after the shotgun went off the mast began to withdraw swiftly. It disappeared inside the tower, was gone.

  'Private property,' Airs Grimwood yelled.

  It was becoming like the repetition of an old gramophone when the needle had got stuck. Tweed shrugged, wondering why Paula had slipped behind him earlier. The old crone opened up a fresh barrage.

  'That girl with you - 'as a camera. I want the film.'

  'No, I haven't,' Paula lied. 'Can't you recognize a pair of binoculars? Get your eyesight tested.' Silly old cow, she added to herself as Tweed went back towards the cars.

  They stood staring at the sea for a few minutes. Now it was like a sheet of crystal, flat, motionless. Paula heard the muffled sound of Harry Butler's machine return slowly down the path from the Down.

  'I've got a suggestion,' Newman said as he joined them. 'Harry's had a long tiring ride. I could squeeze his small motorcycle in my hatchback, let him drive your car, Tweed — then the three of us could drive back together and talk.'

  'Good idea,' Tweed agreed. 'Get your photo?' he asked Paula.

  'Photos. Half-hidden in the shadow beyond the house I saw a helipad - with a chopper on it. I got that as well as the mast. They certainly want to keep that thing - whatever it is - secret...'

  They were driving back along the A27, heading for the distant turn-off towards Petworth. Newman was driving the hatchback with Tweed beside him and Paula in the rear. Behind them Butler was driving Tweed's car. Unsettled by their visit to Eagle's Nest, the atmosphere up on the Downs, they were silent for a few minutes. It was shortly after they had moved on to the A27 when Paula peered through the rear window.

  'There's a helicopter flying fairly high up behind us. The odd thing is it looks as though it came from Lord Barford's estate. Has he got a chopper?'

  'No idea,' Tweed replied, his eyes half closed.

  'Bob, what did you think of Mark Wendover?' Paula went on.

  'Calls himself a freelance, which struck me as odd. What is he like? Only a slight American accent. His mother was English. Has a first-class brain, really knows his stuff. And he doesn't miss much. He's convinced Jason Schulz was murdered, then it was mocked up to make it look like suicide.'

  'Two fake suicides,' Tweed mused. 'Three and a half thousand miles apart. Both men in top government posts - so both had access to top secrets. What's the link? I've no idea, but as you know I don't believe in coincidence. Could the assassin be the same person?'

  'Easily,' Newman replied. 'The deaths took place roughly five days apart. Plenty of time for someone to do the job in Washington, then catch a flight over here from Dulles Airport.'

  While they were descending the switchback road towards the A27 a quiet voice spoke by radio-telephone to the pilot of the chopper waiting by his machine.

  'Follow two cars leaving Eagle's Nest. Report their route. They are probably heading for Park Crescent in London. Give regular reports of their position to Bronze . . .'

  The owner of the same quiet voice then pressed fresh numbers.

  'Listen to me carefully. And don't make mistakes or you know what will happen to you. A chopper pilot will tell you at regular intervals the location of the two cars. I'm sure their destination is Park Crescent. Bronze, move fast. Steal an unusual vehicle - the target is smart. You have his description. Tell Zero to kill Tweed.'

  'That chopper is still with us,' Paula said as they reached the centre of London.

  'Probably not the same one,' Newman told her. 'London has them flying all the time. And Tweed is fast asleep.'

  'Perhaps we had better stop chattering.'

  'You stop chattering,' Newman suggested. 'Park Crescent is very close.'

  'Look what's coming towards us. At this hour. 3 a.m. I don't believe it.'

  The vehicle moving towards them along an otherwise deserted street was an old-fashioned sightseeing bus with an open top. The notice above the driver's cabin seemed superfluous. NO'I IN SERVICE. Paula crouched down to get a better look as it crawled towards them. A pre-Second World War museum piece but tourists loved them. She saw the driver staring straight down the road, cap perched at a jaunty angle. Then she saw movement at the top of the bus, a man in the front seat aiming a barrel-shaped object.

  'Look out!' she yelled. 'Gunman aboard . . .'

  Newman turned the car across the path of the oncoming bus. Two sharp reports split the silence. Bullets tore holes in a side window, missing Tweed, who was slumped in his seat. Two more holes appeared in the side window opposite as the bullets continued their vicious track. Newman braked as the car slammed into
a wall.

  'Are you all right?' Paula asked Tweed anxiously.

  'Yes. So who phoned ahead from Alfriston? Or Barford Manor?'

  CHAPTER 1

  Lisa woke for the fifth time and it was daylight. She had felt exhausted when she had flopped on the bed in her clothes. After sleeping an hour she had decided to explore her room. Not daring to switch on the light again, she had crept over to the curtained window, cautiously pulling aside one curtain. What she had seen gave her the horrors.

  Outside the window was a fire escape leading down into the wide alley where she had parked her car. She could see the vehicle a few yards away below her. Anyone who had managed to follow her could have mounted the fire escape and climbed into her room. She no longer felt safe. ,

  Checking the feeble catch that locked the window, Lisa risked turning on the light. Working quickly, she hauled three cheap wooden chairs to the window, turned them on their sides, scattered them. At least that way she might have a warning of danger.

  She thought of taking a shower and a wave of fatigue swept over her. Before she flopped on the bed again she tucked her Beretta automatic under the damp pillow, fell asleep. It was seven in the morning when daylight, penetrating the flimsy curtains, woke her again. She decided to get up.

  She thought once more of taking a shower in the tiny bathroom, then reluctantly dismissed the idea. If someone came up the fire escape she'd be helpless, caught in the shower. She washed quickly, brushed her mane of red hair, put on a little make-up, felt better. The phone rang.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin but reacted quickly. Lifting the receiver, she said 'Yes' in a soft voice. It was the old besom who had stood behind the reception counter when she arrived.

  'Thought I'd better warn you. Coupla men are on the way up to your room. Said they was police. Rude sods, they are . . .'

  'Thank you.'

  She realized the woman had warned her because she'd resented the way they'd spoken to her. And she had obviously had doubts whether they were police, so they weren't in uniform. As a precaution - and due to her weariness when she'd arrived - she had opened the lid of her case but had taken nothing out except her cosmetics bag. She ran into the bathroom, grabbed the bag, shoved it back into her case, closed the lid.

  Lisa had the window open, had rested her case on a metal tread outside, lifted one leg over the sill, when she heard the hard rapping on the locked door to the corridor.

  'Police. We know you're in there. Open up. Police . . .'

  The voice was hard, demanding. The rapping resumed. She started down the fire escape, not hurrying for fear she'd have an accident. She heard the savage splintering of wood. They were breaking down the door.

  Two men had rushed into the room. Both wore dark business suits. One was of medium height, fat, and his black eyebrows, matching his hair, met over the bridge of his boxer's nose. His companion was small, slim with Slavic cheekbones, ponytail hair, a cruel narrow face and sideburns. He held a large knife in his right hand. The order had been it should be a quick quiet job.

  'Not in bathroom,' the small man reported.

  'Panko, the bloody window.'

  Eyebrows rushed across, peered out. As he did so Lisa, who had reached the bottom steps, looked up, saw him clearly, ran to her car. Eyebrows swore.

  'She's got transport. I'll get the car, you go after her. Pick you up in the jalopy . . .'

  Lisa kept her cool, carefully inserted her ignition key as Panko tore down the fire escape. She had the engine going as he reached the bottom, stood in the middle of the wide alley. Without hesitation she drove straight at him. He jumped aside, brandishing his knife, pressing himself against the wall.

  Lisa pressed her foot down, but travelling across the cobbled surface of the alley slowed her down. In her rear-view mirror she could see a large blue Ford pause at the foot of the fire escape. The little man jumped aboard, then the Ford was coming after her.

  'Those aren't detectives,' she said to herself. 'Not when one of them is waving an evil-looking knife about. Girl, you're in real trouble . . .'

  She decided to head for Waterloo station, but soon ran into heavy commuter traffic. The real danger loomed when she was approaching die bridge crossing die Thames. An amber light, which she hoped the car ahead would beat, turned red, it stopped. She braked.

  'Well, I'm surrounded by cars with people,' she comforted herself.

  Glancing again in the mirror, her brief release from fear vanished. She clenched her teeth. The small man had left the stationary Ford six cars behind her and was wending his way between the traffic towards her. The car she was inside was an old model and there was no mechanism she could use to lock all the doors.

  All Skinny had to do when he reached her was to open her door, then ram home his butcher's knife. She reached for her Beretta, jammed behind her belt under her coat. Couldn't get to the damned thing. She alternately checked her mirror, gazed at the red light.

  'Green!' she prayed. 'For Christ's sake, turn green . . .'

  Skinny was coming closer and closer. The light obstinately remained at red. Skinny was now one car behind her, sidling forward fast. She still couldn't get her hand on the Beretta. In any case, that would be a disaster. If she did manage to shoot him it would be a police case, probably keeping her out of action for ages. Skinny was grinning now. Had his right hand under his windcheater.

  'Oh, please!'

  Skinny had now arrived at the rear of her car, his hand half outside the unzipped windcheater. She could see the triumph in his evil eyes, the look of devilish anticipation. The lights changed to amber, to green. The traffic surged forward and she surged with it. She had a glimpse of him caught up in the melee of traffic.

  'Run the bastard down,' she said aloud between her teeth.

  Lisa parked the car in an underground garage near the station. Carrying her case, she walked rapidly to Waterloo, confident she had lost them. The large concourse was a swirl of people, hurrying to work after leaving their trains, which suited her. You were easily lost in a crowd.

  Spotting a row of phone booths, she went inside one that had empty booths on both sides. Her first call was to the car hire company. She told them where she'd parked the car, that she wouldn't need it again. They'll be happy, she thought as she prepared to make another call - she had paid for another two weeks' hire.

  Taking out the card Tweed had given her from her handbag, she pressed numbers. A woman's voice answered. She spoke quickly.

  'This is Lisa Trent. I need to speak to Mr Tweed. I met him at a party. He told me to call him so we could meet urgently.'

  'I'm sorry, but Mi Tweed is out of the office keeping an appointment. He may not be back for a while.'

  'In that case could I speak to Paula Grey? I met her at the same time.'

  'I am sorry about this. Miss Grey accompanied Mr Tweed to the same appointment. Could you give me a message?' Monica suggested.

  'Not really. It is Mr Tweed I have to talk to. I'll call back later in the day. Please tell him I phoned because I know he'll want to see me . . .'

  Lisa put down the phone and turned round, then froze. Eyebrows and Skinny were marching purposefully across the concourse. They were heading in her direction.

  Monica was typing furiously on her word processor when Harry Butler came into the room, parked himself on the arm of a chair. He removed the scarf that had protected him from the bitter cold outside.

  'Well, Monica, I've put the hatchback in for repair. Took it to a pal who won't be reporting to the police the bullet holes in the windows. Tweed didn't want that. My car was just too far behind them for me to spot the old bus - otherwise I'd have nabbed the killers. What are you typing?'

  'Tweed's report on the so-called suicide of Jeremy Mordaunt.' She had removed her earpiece. 'He dictated it on to the recorder, said he can think more quickly using the machine. Want to hear his verdict?'

  'Guess you'll tell me anyway.'

  Butler was a short man with wide shoulders, a m
an of great physical strength. He had a round head and an expressionless face. Normally he used words frugally, as though they were money.

  'Tweed has no doubt Mordaunt was murdered. He dismisses the idea that he committed suicide as ludicrous. Why does the phone always go when I'm explaining something?'

  'General & Cumbria Assurance . . .' She began. 'Oh, it's you. Professor Saafeld. I'm afraid Tweed is out but he's anxious to have your report on the autopsy . . .'

  'Is that Monica?' the abrupt voice asked. 'My report is now ready - several copies.'

  'I'll send a courier over to collect them immediately.' She hesitated. 'Can you give me an inkling of your conclusion?'

  'Cold-blooded murder. Not a shadow of a doubt. The report has technical data. That's what I'll say at the inquest.'

  He broke the connection and Monica used the phone to send one of their couriers over to Saafeld's mansion in Holland Park. Then she printed out the report for Tweed, talking as she worked.

  'Nobody can fault Tweed now. Saafeld said it was coldblooded murder. He doesn't normally use such strong language.'

  'Copies of the reports going to someone?'

  'Yes. Gavin Thunder for one. He'll throw a fit.'