Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  'Stay where you are. I'll make sure the rubbish 'as gone.'

  He was absent for longer than she'd expected. She wondered whether he'd gone off to find another suitable hidey-hole to doss down. Then he reappeared, staggering a little as he came down the steps.

  'Rubbish 'as gone. Went up Gower Street. Best go other way. Sorry about the stink in there.'

  'I'm so very grateful to you. Heaven knows what you've saved me from.'

  She had emerged from the alcove, was standing up. She reached for her purse, uncertain whether he'd resent payment. He seemed to read her mind. From under his shabby coat he produced a wallet fat with banknotes, showed it to her.

  'I'm all right. Works the dustcarts. Odd way to earn me livin' but the money's good. Off you go . . .'

  She threw him a kiss, climbed the steps, checked to her left, saw no one and hurried in the other direction. In Tottenham Court Road she flagged down a cab.

  'Reefers Wharf in the East End. You know it?'

  'Don't often go down there. Course I know it. I did the knowledge . . .'

  Less than an hour later she paid the fare, then started walking. She thought it wiser if the cabbie didn't know where she was going. It was market day. The wide street was littered with stalls, men crying out their wares. Wearing a camel-hair coat over her trouser suit she became a target.

  'Oi! Lady, we're givin' it away. It's April Fool's Day and I'm the. fool. . .'

  She hurried on until she saw the sign above the ancient pub. The Hangman's Noose. She pushed open the door and several sellers from the market were seated, drinking beer. Behind the bar a man saw her, gestured for her to move to a quiet end of the bar.

  'Herb,' she said, keeping her voice down, 'I need a room. I haven't slept properly for twenty-four hours. Thugs have chased me. I gave them the slip.'

  'Room Three. It's at the back.' He reached under the bar, surreptitiously handed her a key. 'Up the stairs and straight down the corridor. You get more beautiful each day, but you look all in. Have you eaten?'

  'No, I haven't.'

  'Thought not. Would 'am and eggs do?'

  'I'm salivating. But there's a problem. I've left my case in at Waterloo. I have the receipt. . .'

  'Give me it. Bert will drive there in my car. Be back here in no time.' She handed him the receipt, which disappeared inside his apron pocket. 'Give me a buzz on the phone when you're ready for the food.'

  'Thanks, Herb. I could do with a shower first.'

  'Room Three has all mod. cons. Bert will be back with your case in a couple of hours.' He leaned forward, whispering. 'No messages from Rhinoceros, whoever he may be, wherever he may be.'

  'He's abroad. A very powerful man. I've never seen him and I've no idea where he is. Or who he is.'

  Newman and Paula followed Tweed into his office. Newman waved a warning finger at Monica, gestured towards Tweed who had taken off his coat and settled behind his desk.

  'Don't talk to him. All the way back from Eaton Square he hasn't said a word.'

  'I have to tell him something,' she protested. 'Professor Saafeld's report with copies are in that envelope on his desk. Plus his own report which I've typed.'

  'Thank you, Monica,' Tweed said quietly and opened both envelopes. 'Now let me see what he says about the autopsy.'

  'And, Paula,' Monica went on, 'that sealed yellow envelope on your desk is from Art Baldwin. It's the photos you took of Eagle's Nest on the Downs. Art insisted he had to be present when you opened it.'

  'He's a boffin,' said Newman. 'Like all scientific types he has tunnel vision. Nothing exists outside his world.'

  'Not yet,' Tweed ordered. 'I've almost finished both reports and you'd better know what they contain . . .'

  Not for the first time Paula marvelled at Tweed's agile brain. Besides having total recall of conversations and a first-class memory, he was also a speed-reader. He pushed aside the reports, took off his glasses, cleaned them on a new handkerchief, perched them back on his nose.

  'Saafeld's report is damning,' he began. 'An open-and-shut case of murder regarding Jeremy Mordaunt. Which links up with my own conclusions. Monica, take a copy of each report, put them in an envelope addressed "Personal, for attention Gavin Thunder", send them at once to the Ministry by courier.'

  'The Minister will explode,' Paula commented. 'I gather he was so determined it should be suicide.'

  'Can't be helped,' Tweed replied as Monica collected copies off his desk. 'Now, our visit to Eaton Square. Anyone suspect something was wrong when we were inside the drawing room?'

  'I did,' Paula replied. 'She didn't know where the drinking glasses were kept. Went to the wrong cupboard. When we got there she'd been drinking vile sherry out of a water glass. Clearly, after she'd arrived she couldn't be bothered to look for the right glass so she grabbed one from the kitchen. On our way out she chose the wrong key to open the front door. Then the furnishings of the room didn't fit her personality.'

  'Very good. What was that question you asked her about a pet name for Jeremy?'

  'I thought I might throw her off balance - and I did. I'd given her the impression we knew the pet name. She couldn't answer me.'

  'Then we meet the haughty lady who lives there and she confirms our suspicions - although we'd already spotted the so-called Mrs Mordaunt was a fake.'

  'Why would someone send her to impersonate Mrs Mordaunt?'

  'Presumably,' Tweed speculated, 'someone guessed I would think of visiting Mrs Mordaunt. So they replaced her with a woman who would give me all the right answers. Building up the idea that Jeremy had reasons to commit suicide.' He blinked. 'And that could be the same someone who arranged for me to be killed. No, it couldn't be the same person. If they thought I'd be dead the charade of creating a fake Mrs Mordaunt would be pointless. I'm missing something here.'

  'So where is the real Mrs Mordaunt?'

  'That mystery worries me a great deal. I think I'd better call Roy Buchanan and ask him to start a search for her. Now . . .'

  He was on the phone when Harry Butler came in. In his large fist he held a folded sheet of paper. He sat down while Tweed spoke to Buchanan.

  'What's that piece of paper you're holding?' asked Paula, as curious as a cat.

  'Wait. Then you'll see.'

  He handed the sheet to Tweed the moment he finished his call. Sitting upright, he spoke as Tweed opened the sheet.

  'Remember that chopper that followed us back from Alfriston? It did look to me as if it had taken off from Lord Barford's estate.'

  'How high would you say it was when you saw it?'

  'At a guess, about a thousand feet.'

  'Was it gaining height?' Tweed persisted.

  'No, cruising along.'

  'Then it could easily have been the chopper we saw grounded at Rondel's place.'

  'If you'd read my report. Just extracts from the file we have on Lord Barford.'

  Tweed, surprised that Harry should have thought of checking the file, read the short report twice. Then he leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was frowning.

  'That was clever of you, Harry,' he said eventually. 'You left out that, after leaving the Army, Bernard Barford was chief of Special Branch for a while.'

  'Didn't seem relevant.'

  'I agree. What is relevant is that he owns a Sikorsky helicopter, commutes to London in it. Must have a pilot - I know he's never flown a plane in his life.'

  He looked at Paula. She told him Monica had typed the report. He transferred his gaze to Newman.

  'That means,' Newman remarked, 'we don't know which chopper tailed us to London, doubtless reporting our whereabouts - so that gunman could be waiting for us.'

  'I could get Art Baldwin up here,' Paula suggested. 'Then we can open his envelope of pics, the ones I took. He'll go mad if I open it before he's with us.'

  'Heaven save us from boffins,' Newman snapped. 'Although I will admit Art is undoubtedly the best interpreter of photos in the country.'

  Tweed nodded to M
onica, who phoned for Baldwin to come up. Within a minute there was a gentle tapping on the door. Tweed called out, 'Come in.' The door opened and a small man whose face vaguely resembled a squirrel's crept in. He wore thick-lensed glasses. Paula smiled and waved for him to come over. As she was opening the large envelope, Art spoke in a squeaky voice.

  'I've printed the photos you took in Sussex. Original size and various enlargements.' He took a folding magnifying glass from his pocket. 'Very intriguing. I have comments.'

  Everyone in the office, except Monica, got up, gathered round Paula's desk. She spread out the prints. She had used the new camera, invented by the basement boffins. At night it took very clear pictures without needing a flash.

  'The chopper in the background,' Newman said. 'Can we bring that up more clearly, please?'

  Art unfolded the small boxlike magnifying glass, positioned it over the helipad area. Newman peered down at it, grunted. Then he straightened up and whistled before he spoke.

  'That, ladies and gentlemen, is a Sikorsky.'

  'So,' mused Paula, 'that chopper which followed us . . .' She broke off, remembering Baldwin was with them. She had been going to say 'the helicopter could have come from Rondel's place.'

  'I'm also deeply interested in that mast with a complex dish at the top of it,' Tweed said.

  'Fred,' Baldwin began, 'who, as you know, is an expert on communications systems, said that dish is something advanced, something entirely new.'

  He placed the magnifier over the dish. Paula sensed that Art was nervous, wasn't going to say anything more. She looked at Tweed and realized he'd had the same reaction. Newman peered at the image and shook his head. It meant nothing to him.

  'That was it?' asked Tweed.

  'Fred did tell me to keep his other conclusions from you until he'd completed his researches,' Art replied.

  'So what is he keeping secret? I need to know now,' demanded Tweed.

  'He is wondering whether the dish is designed to operate laser beams of enormous power that can eliminate any signals from all the satellites orbiting the earth.'

  'Tell Fred to continue his researches, to drop everything else and concentrate on that dish.'

  'I will. Can I go now?' Art asked timidly.

  Paula knew he was not comfortable with a crowd of people. He practically lived in the basement. Had his meals brought in from a local deli. She blinked at Tweed once.

  'Of course you can go,' Tweed said breezily. 'And my thanks for the good work you've done.'

  'Just doing my job,' Art mumbled and almost ran to the door.

  Tweed walked over to the windows and gazed across at distant Regent's Park. He remained there for several minutes, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. Paula put her index finger to her lips to stop anyone talking. When Tweed swung round he walked briskly to his desk, sat down, looked round the room.

  'I checked the number plate of that limo which drove away from Eaton Square,' Newman reported. 'Through contacts I've got. It was hired from Malibu Motors in Mayfair. I called them, saying I was Special Branch. A Miss Leatherbrother, accompanied by a uniformed chauffeur, paid the deposit and an extra amount in banknotes. The chauffeur has returned the car.'

  'A dead end,' Tweed commented. 'What I expected.'

  'There was something I should have told you earlier,' Harry said. 'Probably not important, but when I biked up to the summit of the Down overlooking that weird house . . .'

  'Eagle's Nest?' Paula prompted.

  'That's it. At the summit, about twenty feet back from the edge of the quarry, were a lot of rabbit holes, or so I thought. Shoved my arm down one and couldn't touch the bottom. It's like a rift circling the Down about twenty feet from the edge. Unstable, I'd say.'

  'I'm sure a man who could afford a house like that had the area properly surveyed,' Tweed replied dismissively.

  'What I was going to say was I think my first instincts were right. This scenario which is unfolding mysteriously has to be something very big, very dangerous. With international implications. Don't ask me what it's about because I have no idea.'

  The phone rang. Monica answered, put the caller on hold, told Paula an Aubrey Barford was wanting to have a word. Paula looked puzzled, shrugged, took the phone and in a cool voice asked how she could help. The call was brief and when she handed the phone back she shrugged again as she went back to her desk.

  'For some reason Aubrey Barford has invited me to have lunch with him at Martino's. One o'clock. I accepted -maybe I'll get some information out of him. At least he's the nice one. Couldn't abide his brother, that stuck-up ponce Lance.'

  'See whether he'll talk about his father's way of life these days,' Tweed suggested.

  'I'll do that. . .'

  The phone rang again. This time Adonica pulled a wry face when she looked at Tweed.

  'The Minister is on the line for you. Gavin Thunder. By now those reports on Jeremy's death will have reached him . . .'

  'Tweed here

  'Thank you so much for sending the reports. I have a favour to ask you. Could you meet me for a quick chat? I'm a member of Marlows, rather an unfashionable club in Pall Mall.'

  'I'd like to bring my assistant, Paula Grey.'

  'She would be most welcome. Marlows has no apartheid where women are concerned, thank heaven.'

  'When would you like us to come?'

  'You couldn't make it in about half an hour's time? Or is that an imposition?'

  'Just a second.' Tweed checked his watch. There was time to agree and Paula could still make her appointment at Martino's. 'Yes, we can be there.'

  'I'll look forward to seeing you both. Thank you again...'

  Paula lifted her eyes to the ceiling. 'I bet he nearly blasted your head off after getting the reports.'

  'On the contrary, he was very polite, most cordial. We'll get a taxi.'

  Monica was surfing the Internet when the most hellish screeching filled the room. She stared in disbelief at her screen, her hands clapped over her ears. She used her head to gesture for them to come and look.

  The terrible noise was so violent they all had hands protecting their ears as they joined her. Paula frowned. She had never seen anything like it. Thick lines, like missiles aimed from different directions, were shooting non-stop all over the screen. Newman used one hand to click the mouse. Made no difference. He hastily re-covered his ear.

  Paula had glanced at her watch the moment the Internet went crazy. The diabolical racket continued, the eye-boggling lines never stopped skidding across the screen. When the noise ceased and the screen returned to normal Paula checked her watch again.

  'That glitch lasted for exactly sixty seconds,' she announced.

  'Let's go,' Tweed suggested. 'This new technology hasn't settled down yet.'

  'But I've never experienced anything like that before,' Monica protested. 'Something very strange has just happened,' she insisted. But they were on their way out.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was 11.30 a.m. Lisa had eaten the breakfast Herb had brought to her room. Her body was tingling with the second shower she had enjoyed and she'd decided she would go out. She was dressed to merge with the area outside The Hangman's Noose. A shabby old pair of jeans, an ancient blouse, a windcheater that had seen better days and an old pair of shoes with metal rims. She slung a well-worn shoulder bag over her shoulder and her hair was covered with a ragged shawl.

  Going downstairs into the bar she was looking forward to wandering round the market. She loved the atmosphere. As she headed towards the door Herb called out to her from behind the bar.

  'Wait a tick, I'm comin' with you.' He turned to a formidable fat woman also behind the bar. 'Millie, dear. Look after the place. I fancies a breath of fresh air

  They had just stepped into the street when the sun came out. Wandering among the market stalls Lisa revelled in the aroma of fresh fruit and vegetables. The cobbled street was littered with discarded cabbage leaves, and inhabitants of the old houses, attracted b
y the brilliant sunlight, leaned out of first-floor windows. Lisa stopped suddenly for a second, then resumed her slow walk.

  'You've seen 'im,' said Herb.

  'Yes.' She grabbed a pair of tinted glasses from her bag, put them on. 'Delgado. What's he doing here? He's a long way from Bulgaria or wherever he comes from.'

  'That's why I came with you.'

  Delgado, holding a large brown paper bag in his left hand, was standing on the far pavement, his dark eyes sweeping the area slowly. A giant, over six feet tall, he had a body to match his height. His greasy black fringe needed trimming and below it was a vicious face. A large nose broken in several places loomed above a wide cruel mouth, an aggressive jaw. He wore a long dark coat that almost reached his ankles.

  'And he's brought a small gang of thugs with 'im,' Herb remarked. 'All foreigners. There's one.'

  A small, powerfully built man, wearing a dirty baseball cap back to front, had stopped at a stall, grabbed hold of a banana, was eating it. The stallholder asked him to pay for it. The small man turned round slowly, finished his banana, threw the skin in the other man's face, waited. The stallholder decided not to make an issue of it when he looked at the culprit closely.

  'I saw Delgado grab a leg of lamb off a stall, shove it into that bag he's holding. When payment was demanded Delgado produced a knife from somewhere. Blade must have bin eight inches long. He didn't pay.'