by Colin Forbes
'Almost,' he said. 'I congratulate both you and Bob for reacting the way you did.'
'You don't want Lisa bothered by police while she's ill,' Newman suggested.
'That comes first. Is most important. But I also think she is the key to this huge crisis building up. I think Buchanan is right in his theory. Lisa was the killer's target. We must keep her guarded night and day.'
'Harry has just gone over to the clinic to relieve Pete Nield,' Newman reported. 'I'm next on duty. No one will get at her.'
'I'll phone the clinic, see how she's progressing,' Tweed decided.
While he was speaking to Master neither Paula, Marler, nor Newman said a word. Paula sensed an atmosphere of tension in the room. After a while Tweed put the phone down.
'Master says she has severe concussion. He wants to keep her there until she's completely recovered. Warned me it could take weeks and he'll keep me informed.'
'I'd hoped for more,' Paula said quietly.
'I'm sure we all did. There's no skull fracture, thank God. Master also said he's sure she was exhausted and that has not helped.'
'She would be, after last night,' Newman commented.
'I have an idea,' Marler began. 'I'd like to go and check out that area round Ebury Street. The killer knew where Lisa was staying. That means he followed her. Might have located her pad days ago. That's what I'd have done in his place.'
'So what would you be looking for?' Newman enquired.
'His base - where he shacked up while he waited for the ideal opportunity. I might get a description of someone. It could take me days.'
'Do it,' Tweed decided. 'It's the only lead we've got to this mysterious business.'
Paula reached for his doodle pad. He had added another name, put a loop round it. Mr Blue.
'And I can't link him up with anyone.'
Tweed put a hand on the top of his head. He began to stand up, then rested both hands on his desk for support. Paula reached out, grasped both hands in hers. He sank back slowly into his chair, sagged.
'You're feeling rotten, aren't you?' Paula said, coming round to his side of the desk.
'Headache's been building up... pounding like a drum. It's so damned hot in here . . .'
Monica swiftly produced a thermometer, handed it to Paula. She inserted it gently into Tweed's mouth, looked at her watch, felt his temple. When she took out the thermometer she showed it to Newman.
'He's got a fever,' she whispered.
'He certainly has. That's diabolically high,' Newman whispered back.
'We're taking you to the clinic,' Paula said, leaning over Tweed. 'You're not. . .'
'Not the clinic . . .' Tweed was having trouble speaking. 'You know I ... hate all medical things . . . hospitals, nurses fussing. Get me home . . . That's an order . . . Then get Dr Abbott
Tweed made a supreme effort. Resting his hands on his chair, he hoisted himself upright, swayed as Paula and Newman each grabbed an arm. He slowly walked towards the door as they held on to him.
'The stairs,' Monica warned, horrified.
'Bring the . . . pad on my desk,' he ordered Monica, then started coughing.
'Not a good idea . . .' she began.
'Bring the pad on my desk!' he roared.
Everyone was startled by the ferocity and strength in his voice. Monica hastily ran and picked up the pad.
'I'm going down the stairs immediately ahead of him,' said Marler. 'The hatchback is outside.'
'Water . . .' Tweed called out, his voice now croaking.
Monica poured a glass, handed it to Paula. Tweed tried to take it but Paula held on, guiding it to his lips. He drank the whole glass in two draughts, coughed again. They half-carried him down the stairs, step by step. Once he bumped into Marler who grabbed hold of both banisters, stiffened himself to take the weight. They reached the hall. George grasped the situation at once, ran to unlock and open the front door. Marler ran out to unlock the hatchback, open the rear door.
Tweed paused on the pavement, took in a deep breath. He looked at Paula, gave her a half-smile.
'Air's good . . .'
When they had Tweed flopped against a rear seat, Marler ran round to take the wheel as Paula climbed in the back. Newman waited.
'I'll keep the roster on you-know-who going,' he called out.
Upstairs, Monica had already phoned Dr Abbott, explained the situation, that Tweed was being taken home. In the Crescent the car moved off.
CHAPTER 12
They had another battle when they arrived at Tweed's flat on two floors, ground and first. Tweed told Paula where to find his keys, she fished them out of his pocket, unlocked the two Banhams, then the Chubb. Marler had held on to Tweed and Paula took the other arm and they entered the hall.
'On the couch in the sitting room,' said Paula.
'No. Upstairs in my bedroom . . . be comfortable there,' Tweed insisted.
'For God's sake,' Marler burst out. 'You don't want to climb more stairs.'
'I said my bedroom. I can make it myself.'
Tweed released himself from their grip, took hold of the banister with both hands, began to haul himself up. Paula and Marler leapt forward, grabbed his arms again, hoisted him up.
Inside the large bedroom Tweed sat on the edge of the bed, bent down to take off a shoe. Paula took over the job and took off bom shoes, his jacket, tie, loosened his shirt collar. Between them they had him undressed, in pyjamas and under the sheets, blanket and old-fashioned eiderdown when the door bell rang.
'That will be Dr Abbott,' said Paula. 'Go down and let him in, please, Marler . . .'
Tweed had flopped his head on the pillow, closed his eyes. Then he opened them and, despite Paula's protests, eased himself up on one elbow.
'My pad,' he demanded.
'You don't need that now,' Paula said firmly.
'It's in my pocket. Put it in the bedside drawer. Then get a fountain pen out of the other pocket. . .'
'You're not going to work . . .'
'Put the pad and pen in the drawer. That's an order.' As she did so he continued talking. 'No one is to know about this silliness. Anyone phoning, I'm away, can't say when I'll be back. Tell all the staff. That's another order . . .'
He flopped back on the pillow as Dr Abbott came in accompanied by another man carrying a machine. Abbott had a brisk manner, an amiable smile. He knew Tweed well as a friend. And he knows how to handle him, Paula thought as Abbott spoke.
'What's all this nonsense? Decided to take a holiday at long last, Tweed?'
Paula went downstairs to join Marler in the living room while the examination took place. She raised her eyes to heaven as she sat down.
'He'll make one hell of a patient.' She told Marler what Tweed had said. 'See what I mean.'
'That's what keeps Tweed going. Iron will-power . . .'
Abbott joined them about fifteen minutes later while his assistant went out to their car, carrying the machine. Paula also knew Abbott.
'He's got a virulent fever, a form of flu, but I suspect it's a rare strain. Has he mixed with anyone from abroad recently?'
'Yes. He toured the riot areas with us. Every conceivable nationality.'
'That's where he's picked it up, a quick-acting strain which I yet have to identify. I've given him an antibiotic and he's fallen asleep. I wanted him to be put into a clinic, but there's no budging him. Says he prefers his own bed, that he won't stand for a lot of chattering nurses fussing round him. Someone should be with him.'
'I can sleep here on that couch. You've met Monica -she can come here to relieve me.'
'Monica is a very capable woman. If there's an emergency - I don't expect one - whichever of you is on duty must call me at once. Now I'm going. I want to get the results of certain tests.'
'You'll keep me informed I hope?'
'Of course - or Monica if she's here. I have the phone number. He must not get out of bed. I slipped a bedpan under it.'
'Dr Abbott, how long do you think this will ta
ke until he has recovered completely?'
'The usual question.' He smiled. 'I never guess. But I will tell you it could be a long haul . . .'
Marler stood up when they were alone. He slipped on his topcoat.
'I'm obeying orders. I'm off to my flat to pack a few things, then I'll trawl Ebury Street, find that place where someone tried to bump off Lisa. I may stay in the area for several days. Something has just struck you.'
'It has. I wonder where the devil that Mark Wendover has got to?'
It was a quiet time in The Hangman's Noose. Herb was polishing the bar counter when Mark Wendover walked in, asked for a dry Martini. Herb looked dubious. 'I get a hint of American from the way you speak.' 'British mother, American father. Spent half my life here. Educated here and in the States. Get the picture. What's the problem?'
'Do my best, but Americans are perticular about Martinis. Saw you mixing it with those rioting swine,' Herb remarked as he took great care over the Martini. 'Saw you with a pal of mine, too. I'm Herb.'
'I'm Mark.' Wendover paused. I'm looking for a man called Delgado. Have a hunch his pad is somewhere round here.'
'You try your luck with some dangerous villains. Don't know where Delgado kips down - but I've seen him prowling round 'ere quite a bit. Especially down Reefers Wharf. That's across the street to the left. Any good? Don't mind if you won't pay for it.'
Wendover had just sipped his Martini. He licked his lips, took another sip, then raised the glass to the barman.
'This is the best Martini I've had since I was in New York. They couldn't do any better over there.'
'Thanks. Tries to oblige.'
Herb started polishing the bar again. Wendover had hoped his genuine compliment about the drink would get Herb talking but the British were careful what they said to visitors. He tried another tack.
'Just between us, the reason I'm after Delgado is I'm CIA.' He produced the folder he had deliberately omitted to hand in when he'd left Langley. The open folder he held up showed his photograph. He slipped it back into his pocket. 'I need to know as much about him as I can.'
'That's just beween you and me. The CIA business. And so is what I'm going to tell you. Delgado is an ugly customer. He was in 'ere one day, chatting to a pal at this very bar. I've got good 'earing. He said "I wish we can find out more on Rhinoceros".'
'That's an animal,' Wendover commented.
'I know. But 'e made it sound more like a person. Which I thought was strange. I s'pose that's why it stuck in my mind.'
* * *
Wendover left the pub, headed for Reefers Wharf. On his way he went into a phone box, one of the old red boxlike types, which he preferred to the new modernistic horrors. Newman answered the phone.
'Mark here, Bob. Ever heard of a guy called Rhinoceros?'
'Where did you hear that name?'
Newman's tone was sharp. At least, thought Mark, I now know it is someone's name. He asked to speak to Tweed. Always talk to the top man, or as high as you can go, had been Wendover's experience.
'He's not here. He's away on a trip. Don't know when he'll be back. Now, once again, where did you hear that name? And where the hell are you? With this outfit you work as a member of a team . . .'
Newman was talking into nothing. Mark had broken the connection. He'd try to get hold of Tweed later. At the moment he wanted to explore Reefers Wharf. He paused at the entrance to a very wide street leading towards the distant river.
There were very large five-storey buildings with the fifth storey in the sloping roof. The buildings furthest away had a modern look, renovated by a so-called architect in a feeble attempt to preserve the original warehouses' appearance. They had large opaque blue-glass windows you couldn't see through. They reminded Wendover vaguely of a miniature version of Park Avenue in New York.
The buildings closest to him had not been touched. They were still the warehouses that had stood there for heaven knew how many years. Their walls of slatted wood had a decrepit look, as though uninhabited. The dormer windows perched on the sloping fifth floor looked as though at any moment they might slide into the street.
He walked a short distance down the street, paused. The sun had come out, was a blinding glare on the buildings, but on his side of the street were dark shadows, alleys leading off, very narrow, cobbled and twisting. Then he saw Delgado.
The giant, holding a bottle in one hand by its neck, was walking unsteadily towards him on the sunny side. Wendover slipped into the shadows of an alley, peered out. Delgado had passed the renovated buildings, which Wendover could now see were occupied by companies, was strolling past the old warehouses.
A single-decker bus came crawling along the street, hiding Delgado from view. When it was near the top of the street Mark could no longer see Delgado. He had vanished into one of the old warehouses. But which one? It could have been any one of four. He went back to The Hangman's Noose, told Herb what had happened.
'I'll have to hang around here until I spot him again. Maybe for days. Know anywhere I can get get a room?'
'Here. Upstairs. The one I gave Lisa, the attractive girl I saw you with during the riots. A taxi arrived this morning to collect her case.' Herb looked at the American. Tall, fair-haired, with a large body to match. But it was the clothes Herb was looking at. 'Hope you don't mind me sayin' so - but you're too smartly dressed to mooch around here for days. You stand out from the crowd. There's a shop just down the road called Wingers. They'd have the kit you need.'
'Thanks. I'll go there now . . .'
He returned later, holding a carrier bag with his new suit inside. Herb looked at his new get-up approvingly. Mark was clad in a shabby camouflage jacket, well-worn denims, a Para's discarded red beret on his head.
'You'll do. I'll show you the room . . .'
Marler had found the flat where Helga Trent had been murdered. It had not been difficult. Police tape still cordoned off the building and on the first floor he noted two bullet holes in a window.
Earlier, carrying a hold-all, he had found a 'hotel' - no more than a boarding house - but it had a small bar. It also had a vacant room which he'd taken.
Now, just before dusk, he stepped over the tape, rang the bell of the flat. A middle-aged woman with a disagreeable expression and suspicious eyes opened the door, stood in the entrance like a guardian, beefy arms folded.
'Are you the landlady?' Marler enquired.
'I'm the owner, if that's anything to do with you.'
'I'm a friend of the late Helga Trent.' Marler smiled and when he did so the opposite sex usually took to him. 'I would very much appreciate it if we could have a few minutes' chat about her . . .'
'You're another bloody reporter. I can smell them a mile off.'
'No, I'm not. Just a few minutes of—'
'Go jump off Beachy Head.'
She slammed the door in his face. He heard her bolt and lock it. Marler decided he wasn't going to get far with this paragon of the female species. He went back to his hotel and into the bar. Officially he was a solar-energy salesman. He didn't think he would run into anyone else in that line of business.
A peroxide blonde wearing a miniskirt sat on a stool next to him. She lit a cigarette, looked him up and down.
'Care to buy me a drink, darling?'
'You live round here?'
'I might.'
'I don't think you do.'
'Bloody well drink on your own.'
She got off her stool, walked away swinging her hips, then out of the front door. Marler was trying to contact someone who knew the area.
He had to wait five days before he struck lucky. It was dark outside when a big man in a shabby suit walked in as though he owned the place, sat on a stool. He shouted his order at the girl behind the bar.
'Double Scotch. Neat. No muckin' about.'
'Coming up now, Mr Barton.'
'You seen anythin' of that girl with the long red hair I asked you about last night? Slim, good figure, a real looker.'
&
nbsp; 'No,' the girl said as she served the drink. 'She hasn't come in here.'
I'll pay for that drink,' Marler said suddenly.
He moved to the stool next to Mr Barton, noticed he had very large hands with hair growing on their backs. Lifting his glass, Barton turned to study Marler with hostile eyes. The girl had moved to the far end of the counter, now Marler had given her the money for the drink.
'An attractive girl with long red hair,' Marler whispered. I'm looking for her too. I'll pay for information. What do you know about her?'
'Let's go outside,' the big man suggested. 'Walls 'ave ears 'ere . . .'
It seemed very dark outside. The street was ill-lit. They came to a corner, walked round it. Barton was gradually dropping behind Marler. Out of nowhere a youth on a skateboard was speeding towards them. Marler felt something hard and round rammed into his back.
'This is a gun,' Barton growled menacingly. 'So you tell me what you know about the red-haired tart . . .'
A car backfired. The youth glanced back over his shoulder, wasn't looking where he was going, cannoned into Marler who twisted his body as he was hurled back against Barton. He stamped his foot down with great force on Barton's foot. The big man dropped his gun, limped, groaned. Marler stooped swiftly, picked up the gun. It was a .455 Colt automatic. From its weight Marler knew it was loaded, with seven rounds probably. Charming. Barton, still limping, yelled out the words.
