Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  'Sense an air of tension,' he drawled in his upper-crust voice. 'Bit of excitement?'

  Tweed began again, tersely reporting every word Lisa had said. Then, for Marler's benefit, he recalled the events since the journey he had made with Paula to Alfriston, the aftermath when two shots were fired into their car.

  'Tweed, you live a charmed life,' Marler commented. 'And Newman's hatchback is parked outside, as good as new. Is this Lisa Trent trustworthy?'

  'Frankly, I'm not sure,' Tweed told him. 'Which is why I've asked her to get here at 5.30. 'I want to grill her. But we should be ready. Harry, Pete Nield has just about had his holiday. Could you contact him?'

  'Spoke to him on the phone this morning before I came in. He's bored. I can get him here in half an hour.'

  'Do it when we've finished.'

  'We carry weapons?' Harry suggested.

  'Nothing lethal. We don't want to start a shoot-out.'

  'Tear-gas bombs then?'

  'Oh, if you insist. But if we do go with Lisa, and I did say if, we're only observing.'

  'Organized gangs,' commented Newman. 'Sounds farfetched. I think Lisa exaggerates.'

  'I don't,' objected Paula. 'You haven't seen her, talked to her. I have. She's very cool.'

  'She was on the phone,' Tweed agreed. 'Although I detected an undercurrent of anxiety.'

  'Bob,' Marler began, straightening up. 'Organized gangs. You know I have a lot of contacts in this country - as well as abroad. I've just got back from Brussels. A contact, who I've found reliable in the past, told me he'd heard large groups of so-called refugees were being trained in the remote Ardennes in military style, using live ammunition.'

  'Belgium is in a mess,' Newman replied dismissively.

  'Also,' Marler ploughed on, 'another contact who lives in that model village near Weymouth phoned me today. Said there were rumours more refugees in large numbers were being brought ashore secretly after dark. Thought I'd pop down there and have a shufti.'

  'More rumours,' Newman commented. 'Soon we'll hear the Martians have landed.'

  'I'm driving down to Dorset,' Marler said firmly. 'I'll call you, Tweed, if I find anything. And, for your information, Bob, this contact is also very reliable. Toodle pip . . .'

  * * *

  When Gavin Thunder's limo reached Trafalgar Square it ran into the normal traffic jam. The Minister, who had just made a call on his mobile, tapped on the closed window between himself and the chauffeur. The car was stationary as the chauffeur slid the window open.

  'Carson,' the Minister told him, 'I'm getting out here. I fancy walking the rest of the way.'

  'Very good, sir . . .'

  Thunder walked back the way the car had come. In Pall Mall, as he approached Marlows, he saw a tall fat man strolling along the pavement. He caught up with him near the entrance to the club.

  'Good timing,' he commented. 'Now let's get inside so you can tell me how things are progressing.'

  Oscar Vernon wore a grey overcoat unbuttoned down the front. Underneath he wore a pale grey suit, a pink shirt, a grey bow tie. In his early fifties, he had a large head, a fat face with bulging grey eyes, a pudgy nose, thick lips and an aggressive jaw which would soon be double-chinned. Everything about Oscar was grey and fat. In his right, well-muscled hand he carried a malacca cane with a curious circular knob.

  'You'd like a drink?' Thunder asked as they sat in the library.

  'Always.' Oscar chuckled. 'Double Scotch.'

  'I'll join you. I've just had a conversation when it was difficult to keep my temper.'

  Thunder ordered the drinks, then stared at Oscar, looking him up and down. Oscar was beaming.

  'Do you have to dress in such a noticeable manner?'

  'Before you have asked. Before I have told you no one takes me seriously. They think I am the clown. If only they knew.'

  Thunder remained silent until the waiter had served them and closed the door. Oscar lifted his glass, drank half the contents, beamed again. Thunder leaned close, kept his voice low, rasping.

  'So how are things progressing?'

  'Under my command . . .' He drank the rest of the whisky, looked at the glass, a hint which Thunder ignored, '. . . they progress. As always. Reinforcements continue to arrive. A rehearsal will take place tonight.'

  'You'd better be damned careful. It's far too early yet for the real thing.'

  'This I know. Discipline. I insist. Under my command ..."

  'Yes, I know. The reinforcements - where will you train and hide them?'

  'On the Bodmin Moor on the Cornwall.'

  'They'll be conspicious,' Thunder objected.

  'No. Tourist buses I hire will take them there. I go there myself. I see the Jamaica Inn for the tourists. They go there. Then they are gone - on to the Bodmin Moor.'

  'You seem to have thought it out,' Thunder conceded reluctantly. 'And now I must go.'

  'You go?' Oscar beamed, showing his large teeth. 'There is something more. No?'

  Thunder reached a gloved hand into his pocket. He handed his guest a thick white envelope stuffed with fifty-pound notes. £10,000. It was his habit to make Oscar ask for the money. It exerted a degree of control over the fat man. He wore gloves to avoid his fingerprints appearing on the money or the envelope. He left the library.

  On his way out he met the waiter. He told him to take another double Scotch to his guest in the library. It would please Oscar. More important, it would prevent Oscar appearing before Thunder left the building. Oscar counted the money quickly. The Minister preferred not to be seen in Pall Mall again with Oscar Vernon, dressed as he was.

  * * *

  Paula arrived at Martino's in a side street off Piccadilly, handed her coat to the hat-check girl, and saw Aubrey seated at a table in a booth by the wall. He was drinking and a half-empty bottle of red wine stood on the table.

  Oh, my God! she thought. I'm going to have trouble with this one.

  Aubrey stood up. In doing so he nearly dragged off the tablecloth. He lurched forward to stop the bottle toppling over and grinned. He was reaching for her to kiss her but she eluded him by slipping into the booth and sitting facing him.

  'Welcome to the banquet,' he greeted her, his speech slightly slurred. 'What are you drinking?' The waiter had arrived.

  'No starter,' she said quickly. 'I'll have Dover sole off the bone with French beans. No potatoes. To drink I'd like still mineral water. No ice or lemon.'

  'I'll have the same. And a bottle of bubbly. Make it Krug,' Aubrey demanded.

  'That's not for me, I hope.'

  'We . . . are . . . going ... to ... set... this town . . . alight.'

  As he paused between each word his fingers marched slowly across the cloth, straightened by the waiter.

  'Champers is for you,' he told her.

  'I don't want any. So if it's just for me cancel the order.'

  He shook his head, winced, refilled his wine glass, drank half of it. She crunched a roll, began buttering it. He grinned foolishly.

  'How is the Brigadier?' she asked him.

  "The fighting old Brig. Pater has St Vitus' Dance. Can't stay in one place for five minutes. Do . . . you . . . know.' He leant across the table confidentially. 'Tell you . . . secret. Strictly entre nous ... he flies all over the ruddy place . . . Brussels, Paris, Berlin, Stockholm.' He paused to drink more, wine. 'How does he know . . . that's what you're thinking.'

  Paula had suddenly realized she had a golden opportunity to extract information without appearing to do so. She drank some water as Aubrey stared at her, his eyes glazed.

  'I don't believe a word of it,' she said eventually. 'You're making it up.'

  'Oh, so that's what you think. Well, beautiful Paula, I've often hidden in a big cupboard in Pater's study . . . listened in when he makes his phone calls. So ... there. What do you think of that?'

  She thought it showed he was a little sneak, eavesdropping on his father. She smiled as she replied.

  'Really?'

  '
Yes. Really. Really . . . Really.'

  He was mimicking the way she had pronounced the word. She tucked one hand under her chin.

  'I can't imagine any of these calls are important.'

  'Can't you? Don't know much, do you, Paula? These calls he makes are secret. So there!'

  The meal arrived. Paula began eating as soon as the plate was put before her. Her host stared at his plate as though he didn't recognize its contents. He had another drink, then smirked at Paula.

  'My father isn't . . . retired at all.'

  'Good for him.'

  'He's matriculating people . . .'

  'Matriculating? Sorry, I don't understand, Aubrey.'

  'Manip-ul-ating people.' He smirked again. 'You are one beautiful lady.'

  As he spoke his right hand went under the table, grasped her knee. She grabbed hold of the hand, removed it forcibly, slammed down her knife and fork.

  'If you touch me again I'm walking straight out of this place.' Her voice was calm, icy calm. 'I thought you were the nice brother. My mistake. Now behave yourself. Eat something - leave the bottle alone.'

  'My profuse apologies. I don't know what came over me. I like you.'

  'Your meal is getting cold.'

  'I suppose you think I'm drunk?'

  'We won't talk about it.'

  'Paula . . .' He leaned across the table. 'Is there someone else?'

  'Mind your own business. You know something? I'm not enjoying this lunch at all. I've lost my appetite,' she continued in her cool tone. 'I'm going to leave now.'

  'You can't do that.' His expression turned ugly. 'No one walks out on me. And the staff here know me.'

  'I'm sure they do by now. Goodbye, Mr Barford.'

  She got up and quickly left the table. Collecting her coat, she went out to find a taxi. It might not have been pleasant but she had extracted intriguing information.

  CHAPTER 6

  Oscar Vernon strolled up St James's Street, malacca cane held under his armpit like a sergeant major's baton. He beamed at several women who stared at his clothes, not realizing they thought them bizarre. Turning along Piccadilly towards the Circus he checked the time, began to hurry.

  He had arranged to make the call from phone box to phone box. The subordinate he was going to speak to would soon be waiting. Diving down into the Underground, he found an empty booth, made his call. At the other end, near Reefers Wharf, the phone was answered immediately.

  'Who is this?' Oscar demanded.

  'Delgado here. There's a queue waiting to use this phone . . .'

  'So what! Listen very good to me. This night at ten o'clock you do the rehearsal. It's been agreed from high up. By me . . .'

  'The men - and the women - will be outside targets.'

  'They had better be. Now listen very good. They look, they see. But no violence. Only if they need to do it to go away. You hear me?'

  'I do. I will tell

  Delgado swore foully, slammed the phone back, pushed his way roughly past the queue. Oscar had again slammed the phone down on him. Bastard!

  * * *

  Tweed, when Paula had left him in a taxi, had walked all the way back to Park Crescent. Walking helped him to think and the sun was shining strongly, so much so that he felt its warmth on his face.

  Entering his office, he found Newman reading a newspaper and Harry Butler, a cloth over his lap, reassembling a 7.65mm Walther automatic he had been cleaning. He handed his coat to Monica and sat behind his desk, took a new writing pad from a drawer and began doodling names. To his annoyance Monica broke into a verbal flood.

  'You remember that very strange thing which happened on the Internet? While you were out I phoned as many of my contacts as I could reach. You are listening, I hope?'

  Tweed grunted. Newman had closed his newspaper and listened to her as she went on.

  'I wanted to find out if it was just a local breakdown. It wasn't. I called Birmingham, Manchester, then New York, San Francisco, Miami, New Orleans, Paris, Berlin, Oslo and even Prague. Every one of my contacts told me their systems had gone haywire at the same time ours did. That is, allowing for time differences. And they all described the same thing - the devilish screeching which deafened them, those missile-like lines shooting over their screens.'

  'A glitch,' Tweed mumbled. 'Never did like the Internet.'

  Monica was about to protest when Paula came in, her face flushed. She went to her desk, threw the loop of her shoulder bag over the back of her chair, sat down, her hands clenched.

  'Enjoy your lunch with nice Aubrey?' Tweed enquired.

  'Like hell I did!'

  Tweed stopped doodling as she recalled every word of the lunch-time conversation, the state Aubrey was in, what he had told her. Tweed began adding names to his pad.

  'I'm sorry you had such an unpleasant experience,' he told her.

  'But I did get some strange information from him regarding his father's activities. And jolly active he seems to be. But what Lord Barford is doing I can't even guess. Let me see.'

  She went over to his desk, stood behind him, stared down at the pad, at the names he'd written down well spaced from each other. Jason Schulz (dead), Jeremy Mordaunt (dead), Bogle, Lord Barford - Brussels, Paris, Berlin, Stockholm - Aubrey Barford, Gavin Thunder, Mark Wendover, fake Mrs Mordaunt, Rondel, Lisa.

  'I was trying to link up one person with another,' Tweed explained. 'So far I've got exactly nowhere. No idea of what is going on, but something is.'

  'That's why you've drawn large loops round each name,' Paula remarked. 'You've used this technique before. And the only loop with anything in it is Barford's - you've put in the city names I said Aubrey had overheard the Brigadier phoning.'

  'All of which gets me nowhere.'

  'Why put Lisa last?'

  'Because at the moment she's my only hope that may lead us to what is happening. Assuming she does turn up at 5.30 this evening.'

  'I'm sure she will.'

  'Are you? We know nothing about her. She's a mystery woman.' He looked at Newman. 'And have you any idea why Mark Wendover hasn't arrived here?'

  'Well, as you know, I had dinner with him last night. Then he asked me to join him again this morning for an early working breakfast. He went out somewhere soon afterwards.'

  'A lot of use he is.' Tweed started cleaning his glasses. 'You had a so-called working breakfast with him. A long one?'

  'Yes. Well over an hour.'

  'And during that breakfast you told him everything you knew as regards our trip to Sussex - the visit Paula and I made to Lord Barford's, then the grim business in Alfriston?'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'I see.' He perched his glasses back on his nose. 'I just wonder. I really do.'

  Early that same morning, Mark Wendover had a large breakfast with Newman, then immediately left the Ritz. He was wearing a white polo-neck sweater, blue jeans, trainers on his large feet and carried a trench coat over his arm. He was in a hurry to get the show on the road.

  From a car-hire firm in Piccadilly he'd noticed when Newman had driven him from the airport the previous day he chose a cream Jaguar. His next port of call was Hatchards, the bookshop. He bought an Ordnance Survey map of East Sussex, studied it for at least two minutes, then hurried back to his car. He didn't need a map of London -from frequent visits he knew his way round the city as well as he knew Washington.

  He was on the straight stretch to Petworth when a blonde in an Audi overtook him, waved a triumphant hand. 'Can't have that,' he decided. He increased speed, passed her, waved a hand. She soon realized she had no chance of repeating her earlier performance as the cream streak became like a toy car way ahead of her.

  Later, when he turned off the A27 to Alfriston, he drove at a sedate pace. It was a glorious day, the sun shining out of a cloudless sky. When he parked the Jag on the outskirts of the village he threw his trench coat into the trunk.

  His long strides soon took him into Alfriston and he walked into a pub which had just opened. In the co
untry a pub was where you heard all the local gossip. Smiling at the barman, he ordered a pint of mild, sat down by the bar on a stool.

  'You're my first customer today,' the barman told him. 'Here on holiday, sir?'

  'Yes and no. Alfriston looks like the sort of place where nothing ever happens.'

  'Don't you believe it. We've just 'ad a murder here. Up the road. Last night.'

  'I like a good murder,' Wendover said cheerfully. 'Read a lot of thrillers. A local, I suppose.'

  'No, it wasn't. A high-rankin' civil servant, so I hear.'

  'Lived round here, did he?'

  'No. Never seen down 'ere before. So why does he come down 'ere to shoot himself in an underground tunnel, of all places.'

  'That sounds more like suicide.'

  'Tell you something.' The barman leaned across the counter. 'The police is baffled. Show you where it 'appened if you'd come outside with me.'

  Mark had only sipped at his drink. He carried the glass out with him. The barman pointed up the narrow street to where police tapes were still in place. Two farmers wandered past them into the pub.