Rhinoceros

by Colin Forbes

  'Come an' 'elp me, Skinny . . .'

  Marler slammed his attacker across the jaw with the barrel of the Colt. Off balance, the big man tumbled down the steps into an area below street level, hit his skull against a brick wall, sagged down, moaning. Marler switched his gaze to the small lean streak of a thug charging across from the opposite side of the street. In his right hand he gripped a flick knife, the murderous blade exposed. Marler waited until he was close, on the pavement, looked behind him, called out.

  'Take him, Larry ...'

  The oldest trick in the world but it worked. As Skinny looked back Marler used the barrel of the Colt again, but this time he aimed it at the side of Skinny's head. It was a businesslike blow and threw Skinny hurtling down the steps after Barton. He remained still at the bottom. Marler checked the street. Empty. Skateboard had long since vanished round a corner. Marler went down the steps.

  He checked Skinny's pulse, which was beating steadily, but he was unconscious. Lifting him out of the way, Marler dumped him in a far corner, returned to Barton, still moaning. He bent down, aimed the Colt.

  'What were you going to do to the red-haired lady?'

  'Rough her up . . .'

  'Open your mouth or I'll blow your head off.'

  Terrified, Barton flopped open his mouth as blood dripped from his jaw. Marler shoved the muzzle of the Colt inside the open mouth. Barton's eyes nearly popped out.

  'Again,' said Marler, his tone steely. 'What were you going to do with her? Three seconds and I'll pull the trigger.'

  He removed the muzzle from the big man's mouth so he could speak. It took him half a minute to get the words out and then they were a mumble.

  'We was goin' to kill her.'

  'Right. Who paid you to do it?'

  'For Gawd's sake. Mister . . . don't know. One like us . . . wore dark glasses. Paid cash . . .'

  Marler was convinced Barton didn't know. In any case, the man who had instructed him, who had paid the cash, would be only part of a chain, extending back who knew where. He looked carefully at Barton. The big man was lying motionless, his eyes half closed, a real mess. And Skinny was out for die count.

  Climbing back up the steps, he walked a short distance away, took out his mobile, called Buchanan's private line. The Superintendent answered at once.

  'Yes?'

  'Marler here.' He had already noted the street name, the number of the house above the area. He gave them to Buchanan. 'In the area at that address you'll find two criminals, knocked about a bit, waiting for your collection by a patrol car . . .'

  'Hang on.'

  Marler knew Buchanan was already dispatching the patrol car. He spoke quickly so he could get away before the police arrived.

  'The big fellow is Barton, if that's his real name. The other one has the nickname Skinny. Barton admitted they tried to kill a certain girl, muffed it . . .'

  'Knocked about a bit, you said. Your work?'

  'Have to go now. Run out of coins . . .'

  He hurried back to the hotel, went up to his room, locked the door. About five minutes later he heard the sound of a police siren. Taking out his mobile, he called Newman at Park Crescent, explained what had happened.

  'I can't keep out of trouble, can I? Now, how is Tweed?'

  'Bearing up, I gather. Not the easiest patient in the world.'

  'Good for him. And Lisa?'

  'Still at the clinic. The consultant doesn't seem worried, but like Tweed it could be a slow recovery.'

  'OK. By the way, when I spoke to Buchanan I didn't let slip we even knew Lisa, didn't mention her name.'

  'That's the way Tweed would want it, I'm sure. Go out and find some more thugs you can chat to . . .'

  'I'm sorry I'm late relieving Monica,' Paula said as she sat down by Tweed's bedside. 'How are you feeling?'

  'Better.' Tweed was perched up against a pillow. 'I think the first antibiotic Master gave me is doing the trick. I won't need the second one.'

  'Yes, you will. Master says that's the vital one. Behave yourself.'

  'You've been up to something. You're an hour late. You're never late except for a very good reason. Tell me,' Tweed snapped.

  'All right. I thought you'd get it out of me. Since Monica took over this afternoon I've been trawling London - in the hope I'd see something - or someone - which would tell us what is going on. Partly walking, partly moving from area to area by taxi. I may have struck gold this evening,' Paula ruminated.

  'Get to the point.'

  'A taxi dropped me near Santorini's, that expensive restaurant with a platform projecting over the river. I saw the Brig. — Lord Barford - and his disgusting son, Aubrey. The one I had lunch with. They had just got out of a taxi and Aubrey was carrying a large suitcase plastered with labels. The sort of thing you collect travelling abroad . . .'

  'I know,' Tweed said impatiently.

  'I got the distinct impression they'd just got back from Heathrow - because of the suitcase. Which one made the trip to somewhere I don't know - Aubrey could have been carrying his father's suitcase. They went into Santorini's.'

  'And?'

  'I had a mad idea,' Paula informed him. 'I followed them in a few minutes later. They'd be in the restaurant by then. I looked at the hat-check girl's cubbyhole and saw the Brig.'s suitcase with the labels showing. Went up to her and told her Mr Swanton had sent me because he owed them ten pounds on his dinner bill. Held out my hand, full of ten pound coins, reached over the counter, pretended to drop them by mistake on her floor. She bent down to scoop them up and I took a pic of the suitcase with my non-flash camera, then took a taxi back to Park Crescent where they developed the print.'

  'Which you've got with you.'

  'Yes. I really think this can wait. . .'

  'Give.'

  She handed over the print, took a magnifying glass out of her shoulder bag, handed that to Tweed. He studied the print.

  'Hotels in Brussels, Berlin, Paris and Stockholm. Those were the places Aubrey, while drunk in Martino's, told you his father visited.'

  'Exactly.'

  'But it looks as though one label has been removed.'

  'It has,' Paula agreed. 'And it must have been recently. Those labels stick like the devil if they're left for a while.'

  'The missing label must show where he has flown back from. Today. Why the secrecy?'

  'I wondered that.' She watched as he placed the print in the drawer of his bedside table. 'You haven't been working on your pad, I hope?'

  'Added one name. Rhinoceros.'

  M. Bleu had left France. Following the car with his target, Louis Lospin, at the wheel, he had been surprised when the car headed in a different direction, eventually arriving at the airport.

  After parking his car in a crowded multi-storey, Lospin had, carrying his bag, checked in for a flight to Corsica. Bleu had shrugged, realizing Lospin was taking a holiday. Air travel did not appeal to him this time - the airport swarmed with security men. The President was due in on a flight. Bleu had left his motorcycle in the multi-storey, had taken a taxi to the Gare du Nord.

  From there he caught an express to Amsterdam. He would have been very difficult to detect, let alone to follow. And he had not even considered waiting in Paris for Lospin to return. He could have become conspicuous, been intercepted by French security.

  Arriving in Amsterdam, he took a taxi to a hotel near Schiphol Airport. Registering under one of the several names in his collection of different passports, he went up to his room, phoned the airport for flights to Britain the following day. To his surprise he found he could catch an early evening flight to Heathrow if he left the hotel immediately. He did so.

  CHAPTER 13

  Weeks sped by. Tweed had a relapse, then staged a steady recovery. In the clinic, Lisa endured a slow return to normal. All his team had been summoned to Park Crescent on the morning Tweed roared in. It was now late June. He sat erect behind his desk, gazed round.

  'Welcome back,' said Paula.

  'H
ear, hear.' called out Newman.

  'Enough of that, I have a clearer picture of what is happening. Still vague, but clearer. We must get moving . . .'

  He broke off as the door opened and Lisa walked in. Newman, Paula, Mark Wendover, Harry and Pete, Monica and Marler all stared at her. The colour had come back to her face, she was the picture of vibrant health. No one had heard that she had left the clinic. She looked at Tweed.

  'I discharged myself.'

  'Was that wise?'

  '.' know when I'm fit. I have to go somewhere at once.'

  'No point in asking you where?' Tweed said.

  'None at all.' She bent down, kissed him on both cheeks and headed for the door. 'Goodbye, everyone. For the moment. Thank you for all you've done for me.'

  'Not even a hint?' pressed Tweed.

  'You know where I'm going.' She opened the door. 'I told you. Tweed, you're a bit thick.'

  Then she was gone. Tweed reached into his pocket, took out the doodle pad, extracted a page. He again gazed round the room.

  'I am a bit thick. It was staring at me all the time. Those words she managed to utter when she arrived at the clinic. "Ham . . . Dan ... 4S.' Hamburg. The famous Four Seasons Hotel, which I know. That's where we're all going.' He looked at Monica. 'Book Club seats for all of us - on a flight for tomorrow. And pack light clothes, now this heatwave has hit us.'

  The heatwave had started two days earlier, not predicted by the forecasters, of course. Not only Britain was affected. It was scorching the whole of northern Europe. Tweed was wearing a fawn linen suit. He had already taken off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair.

  'Thick is the word for me,' Tweed continued. 'Buchanan confirmed it when he told me Lisa's murdered sister was called Helga.'

  The phone rang. Monica answered, told Tweed Keith Kent was calling.

  'On the phone?'

  'No, he's turned up downstairs, most unusual behaviour for him . . .'

  'Wheel him up.'

  Keith Kent walked in. He smiled at Paula, pulled a funny face at Newman, sat down, refused the offer of coffee from Monica.

  'Can't stay long. Thought of another contact who could be helpful with information about Rhinoceros. Should have thought of him weeks ago.' He passed a sheet of paper to Tweed. 'Name is Dr Kefler. That's his phone number and address. He's lived in Hamburg all his life. Regarded in Germany as a financial genius. Rightly so.'

  'We're off to Hamburg tomorrow, as it happens, Keith. I'd prefer to call on him.'

  'Oh. Then be careful. That address is down by the docks, overlooks the river Elbe. A tricky place at night.

  You can bump into some pretty rough characters. Wish I was coming with you. I like Hamburg.'

  'Come, then. Join us. We'll be at the Four Seasons Hotel.'

  'Now you're making my mouth water. Can't make it tomorrow. Might - just might - fly over there in a few days' time.'

  'What sort of a man is this Dr Kefler? His personality?'

  'Shrewd as a barrel of monkeys. Personality? Reminds me of a chuckling teddy bear. I must go now. Enjoy the holiday.'

  'I suspect it may be anything but a holiday.'

  'See you all . . .'

  Kent was gone as swiftly as he had arrived. Tweed held up the sheet of paper Kent had left him.

  'There we go. Further confirmation. Germany. Before you scuttle off to buy new clothes, which I expect some of you will need to, I'll summarize the state of war up to now - my thinking when I was lying in bed for ever. I can't explain why, but I'm convinced we're involved with two very powerful forces battling with each other. I can't yet work out which character we've met - there are plenty of them - belongs to one force and which to the other. Lisa could be on the good side — but she could also be on the bad one. And this is very big. It involves governments, power. Two top aides to powerful men have been murdered - Jeremy Mordaunt, and Jason Schulz in Washington . . .'

  'Pause for breath,' Newman called out. 'Permission to speak.'

  'Well, get on with it. What is it?'

  'I don't think you've read the newspapers today.' Newman held up a copy of the Daily Nation. 'Yesterday, in Paris, the closest man to the Prime Minister, a certain Louis Lospin, was murdered on his front doorstep.'

  * * *

  Paula had rarely seen Tweed take a minute to absorb the implications of a new development. He sat quite still, his expression one of great gravity. He pursed his lips.

  'Which further confirms what I just said - that governments and power are involved. At the highest level. We must tread carefully. I'm convinced that someone decided these men - Mordaunt and Schulz, and now Lospin -knew too much.'

  'I've got another morsel,' Newman told him.

  'Then spit it out.'

  'While you were lolling in bed I spent part of my time renewing contacts with old reporter chums. Lots of alcohol. One chap is a specialist writing on security. Used to be with Special Branch. Told me there's a top secret international conference planned soon now . . .'

  Tweed interrupted. 'Attended by who?'

  'Do let me finish. One candidate is your old friend . . .' Newman smiled. 'Gavin Thunder. Another is the American Secretary of State . . .'

  'Their Foreign Secretary,' Paula chimed in.

  'Do you mind?' Newman snapped. 'A third one is the Prime Minister of France. Number four is the Deputy Chancellor of Germany. They'll all to fly to the Bahamas, land, transfer by boat to another island, name unknown. An SAS unit is being flown out, plus a whole regiment of security wallahs. The stage is yours.'

  Tweed stood up, walked briskly over to a large map of the western hemisphere hanging on the wall. Paula noticed he was studying the Bahamas.

  'One hell of a lot of islands,' he commented. 'You said this conference will take place soon now. How soon?'

  'My contact said it could be any time within the next month. He also guessed - or so he said - that it was linked with the riots a while ago. The secrecy is quite incredible.'

  'It's all adding up to the picture I built up,' said Tweed, returning to his desk. 'The vague picture. Huge forces are on the move. Forces that, I suspect, could transform our lives.'

  'And the answer could be in Hamburg?' Mark enquired. 'I'm fluent in German, if that would help.'

  'I hope to find the key in Hamburg. This Dr Kefler might help. Paula and Marler are also fluent in German. I know a little myself . . .'

  'You're damned well so fluent you could pass for a German,' Paula snapped. 'And you know it.'

  'The more the merrier,' Tweed replied.

  'Seats all booked for Hamburg,' Monica called out. 'You're to be at Heathrow at noon tomorrow. I've sent a courier to collect the tickets - I'll hand them out this afternoon. I did book return.'

  'Yes, we do hope to return,' Tweed told her grimly.

  Paula thought Tweed had never been more vigorous -and doom-laden. This is going to be no picnic, she told herself.

  'Seating. How do we travel?' Harry asked, the first time he had spoken.

  'Good point,' Tweed agreed. 'I sit with Paula. Away from us, Newman sits with Mark. Near the back of the plane Harry will be with Pete - to keep an eye on us. Marler behind all of us.'

  'Weapons?' drawled Marler, propping up a wall.

  'You ask that question?' Tweed rasped, leaning forward. 'We know three top government men have been murdered. Paula told me she'd heard from Buchanan that one of the two thugs he's arrested admitted their job was to kill Lisa. Somebody tried to kill me on our way back from Alfriston a century ago. And you ask that question?'

  'So I gather the answer is yes,' replied Marler, quite unperturbed. 'Lucky I have a contact in Hamburg. Nice little chap. In a not-so-nice little street off the Reeperbahn.

  For that I'll have to take ninety thousand deutschmarks.'

  'So you're buying an artillery piece?' Harry joked.

  'Thought it might come in handy,' Marler joked back.

  Paula did a quick mental calculation. Ninety thousand DM - about thirty t
housand pounds. But she knew obtaining illegal weapons - with the serial- numbers filed off and that had never been used by anyone else - came expensive.

  'Oh, Tweed, I didn't tell you the full story about Louis Lospin's murder. That's London's version. The French papers are calling it suicide. Gave a graphic description of how he waited until his chauffeur had raced off- probably to see his latest girlfriend, which is my bit - and then blew his head off and slumped down the front door of his apartment, still holding the gun.'

  'Echoes of Jason Schulz,' Mark commented. 'Found slumped down at the bottom of a tree trunk, the gun clasped in his hand. He should have toppled sideways.'

  'Echoes of Jeremy Mordaunt,' Tweed said. 'And I saw the body. I've just decided - after what Bob told us - that I'll call in at the Ministry of Armaments on the off chance Gavin Thunder is behind his desk.'

  'Want me to come with you?' Paula suggested.