by Colin Forbes
'We've beaten you to it. Early bird catches the worm.' 'I've no intention of trying to catch you,' she replied tartly.
'One in the eye for you, Rupert,' Basil commented.
Rupert gave Paula a venomous look. As the two men strolled on Newman caught Tweed's arm to get him to pause. No one else was about and he could hear what the two men were saying.
'I'm off out to get something from my car,' Basil said.
'And I,' Rupert said in a loud voice, glancing over his shoulder, 'am going to get a shower. It's fun to have company in a shower,' he went on, staring at Paula. 'Maybe you'd consider joining me sometime soon.'
As they continued strolling away Paula flushed. She gritted her teeth. Had Rupert been close enough she'd have slapped his face. Newman took her arm, guided her into the restaurant, followed by Tweed.
'No point in exchanging more insults with such trash,' he advised her. 'And surprise, surprise, look who is here.'
Sharon sat at a large table by herself, breaking a croissant between her elegant hands. She waved to them, an invitation to share her table. Tweed walked to her table, waited for Paula and Newman to join him.
'Paula, do sit by me,' Sharon suggested. 'Gentlemen, choose your seats.'
'I thought you were going to say choose your weapons,' Newman joked.
'Are you following me, Bob?' Sharon enquired as Newman sat down. 'If so, I take that as a great compliment. Or maybe, Tweed, you are the one who is pursuing me?'
'That's right,' Tweed replied, glancing at the menu, 'divine inspiration told us you'd be staying here.'
'Is there anywhere else to stay in Paris?' she retorted.
'Mind if I join you folks?' a deep American voice rumbled. Ed Osborne had a hand on the back of an empty chair facing Tweed. 'Guess we're gettin' to be a family - the way we keep meetin' up.'
'You're welcome, of course, Ed,' Sharon replied unenthusiastically.
'Great. I'm a sociable guy. Like company. What are you guys havin' for breakfast?' he enquired.
'We're having the full English,' Tweed told him. 'Here's the waiter.'
'Guess I'll go along with that,' Osborne agreed.
After they had ordered Sharon concentrated her attention on Paula. Putting a shielding hand to her face, she raised her eyebrows and glanced to her left at Osborne, as much as to say 'Here we go again.' Instead she said something else.
'When I've finished breakfast I'm off to the hairdresser. They have a good one here.'
Paula looked at Sharon's blonde waves, sweeping down gracefully to her shoulders.
'You look as though you've just come from the hairdresser,' she remarked.
'That's the nicest thing anyone's.said to me for a while.' Sharon extended a hand across the table, clasped Paula's. 'Thank you. Tweed, why are you in Paris?' she asked suddenly.
'I'm investigating the probable murder of Denise Chatel's father and mother at a lonely bridge in the state of Virginia.'
Osborne spilt coffee from the cup he was holding on his napkin. A waiter hurried forward, checked to make sure no coffee had stained his smart beige suit. Presenting him with a fresh napkin the waiter took away the spoilt one.
Paula was stunned by Tweed's unusual candour. She stiffened but managed to avoid a startled expression.
'Murder?' Sharon looked puzzled 'I thought they died in a road accident.'
'You got something wrong there, brother,' said Osborne. 'It was an accident, according to the official report.'
'I have a witness who says otherwise,' Tweed told him.
'A witness?' Osborne was incredulous. 'Who is this so-called witness?'
'I don't think I can reveal a name at this stage.'
'This is Paris, France, not Virginia,' Osborne protested.
'The long arm of retribution sometimes stretches across continents.'
'I'm stupefied,' said Sharon. 'Stupefied and shaken. If you're right, does Denise know about this?'
'By the way, where is Denise?' Tweed enquired, evading a direct answer.
'In her room here. Working. She had a very early breakfast.'
'Talkin' about breakfast, here it comes, praise the Lord,' said Osborne. 'Everybody here probably thinks with my weight I'd be better off with just grapefruit. Fact is, I'm in good shape. Keep myself in good shape at the gym. Slam at punch bags, lift weights. All that stuff.'
'You must have good reflexes, then,' Newman suggested.
'He has,' Paula confirmed. 'I saw him coming downstairs this morning like a ten-year-old.'
'In a hurry for my breakfast,' said Osborne, and he chuckled.
'I have to go upstairs to make a phone call,' Tweed announced after finishing his meal.
He glanced round the restaurant. Marler, as instructed, sat at a table by himself some distance away. At another table, again as instructed by Tweed, Butler and Nield sat at their own table. No point in identifying all his people to anyone in the restaurant who might be interested.
'I hope you'll excuse me,' Tweed said to Sharon.
'Of course. I'm just going to have another cup of coffee and then I'll be working too.'
As Tweed left the restaurant Marler stood up, strolled casually after him. En route to the lift with Newman, Tweed felt like a breath of fresh air. As Paula, following behind them, had said earlier, it was a glorious day.
Walking the full length of the wide corridor Tweed approached the main exit leading out onto the Place Vendôme. He reached the door and no one else was about. He stepped forward into the open and was forcefully jerked backwards by Marler. A bullet struck the exact point where he'd been a second earlier. The bullet ricocheted out into the place. The uniformed doorman on duty outside ran up to him.
'Something wrong, sir?'
'Caught my foot on a stone someone must have kicked into the entrance.'
'I thought I heard a noise.'
'Car backfiring.'
Marler had run out into the place. The doorman saw nothing of what he was doing as he was talking inside to Tweed. Marler was circling the empty place, a Walther in his hand. He had it pointed upwards along thq rim of the mansard rooftops opposite. He didn't expect to be fired at - he was a moving target. His reaction was a warning to the invisible marksman who had aimed to kill Tweed. Again from a rooftop, as had been the case in Basel.
Inside the reception hall Tweed was viewing the potentially lethal incident calmly and philosophically. Which was not the case with either Paula or Newman. She kept her voice down but didn't mince her words.
'You must be crazy to walk out of that door by yourself. It was only due to Marler that you weren't killed. What were you thinking of?'
'Paula's right,' Newman agreed. 'What the hell were you thinking about - taking a risk like that?'
'Yes, you are both right,' Tweed responded. 'I was thinking about something that happened at breakfast - or rather something that didn't happen. I'll express my gratitude to Marler when I see him.'
'It means,' Newman pointed out grimly, 'that the Phantom tracked you to this hotel.'
'It means just that,' Tweed agreed.
Earlier, en route to the lift, before he had decided to sample some fresh air, Tweed had paused to take a good look at the patio beyond some windows. He had recalled this was where, in summer, society women gathered for tea and an exchange of the latest scandal. Osborne had passed them on his way out from the restaurant, hurrying to the exit.
Now it was Paula who paused. She was examining the contents of a glass showcase displaying objects d'art sold by a famous shop in the rue St-Honore. The prices were sky high.
'Some valuable stuff there,' Tweed commented.
'You're far more valuable than anything in that showcase,' she reprimanded him. 'In future you don't go out unless Bob and I are with you.'
'Well, you know I always do as I'm told,' he replied with a smile.
'I'm not joking,' she snapped. 'I want you to promise us.'
'I promise. Now I'm going up to my room to make a phone call.'
> He had just spoken when Osborne came in through the front entrance. The American was breathless, waited a moment before he could talk.
'Hi, folks. Just been for a quick jog. Told you I kept in shape. Don't tell on me — I've just committed a crime.' 'What was that?' Newman asked.
'Fed a parking meter. It was way over the top. Parked my car in a side street just off the rue St-Honore last night. No space left in the Ritz garage. See you.'
Paula watched him run nimbly up the stairs he had earlier descended on his way to breakfast. He took the steps two at a time.
'He's recovered quickly from his jog,' Paula observed.
Tweed had gone up in the lift by himself. Paula had paused again to take another look at the showcase. A diamond clasp shaped like the wings of a bird was fascinating her. Newman had waited with her. Marler returned through the front entrance and strolled up to them.
'Like a word. Up those few steps is a small lounge. No one in it.'
'Find anything?' Newman asked when they were settled on a couch.
'I found the bullet intended for Tweed. Here it is.'
He took from his pocket an old tobacco tin with the lid fixed on. Paula stared at it. Then she remembered the time when Marler had smoked a pipe before he switched to king-size cigarettes. He removed the lid. Inside the tin rested an ugly-looking bullet.
'Evidence of a sort,' Marler commented.
'Any sign of the assassin?' Paula asked.
'No. At first I assumed he'd fired from a rooftop. After I hauled Tweed inside I was out there like a rabbit. I scanned the entire square. Then I realized even a cat burglar could never have scaled those roofs. And no window was open. Had one been pulled shut I was out there so fast I'd have noticed it.'
'Then where did he shoot from?' Newman enquired.
`Had to be from ground level, from behind a corner. A bit further along to your right, as you leave the entrance here, there's a large arcade. It was deserted. We had a very late breakfast. All the workers are in their offices. The ladies who shop are still in front of their mirrors, applying make-up and Lord knows what else.'
'You're a cynic, Marler,' Paula teased him.
'I'm wrong, then?'
'No, you're right. I was just amused at your perception about the habits of some women. Comes from experience, I suppose.'
'Where else?' Marler replied.
* * *
Flight BA 9999, bound for New York, was well out over the Atlantic. It was temporarily flying an unusual course to avoid turbulence. The captain had handed over control to his co-pilot for a few minutes to refresh himself. He was gazing down through a window.
At thirty-five thousand feet there was a sea of endless cloud below them, masking any sight of the ocean far below. The forecast had been for a continuous overcast all the way to their destination, many hours away. Captain Stuart Henderson was sucking a sweet provided by his chief stewardess, Linda. On a shelf, securely wedged in, was his video camera. Henderson had promised his wife that he'd try to get a series of shots of the approach to New York. Linda had agreed to operate the camera. Not that Henderson thought they'd have any luck — not at this time of the year. The overcast would stay with them all the way to JFK.
Henderson glanced at his watch. Time to take over from the co-pilot — he'd had his break. He took one final look down, stiffened, stared in sheer disbelief.
'Give me the video camera, Linda,' he called out. 'Quick.'
Below there was an enormous break in the clouds. Below that he saw a gigantic aircraft carrier. Spread out well beyond it to port and starboard were escorts of heavy cruisers. While Linda patiently held the camera Henderson used a pair of high-powered binoculars. He could just make out it was flying the Stars and Stripes. Guided-missile cruisers were protecting the carrier. Midway between the two destroyers sailed on a parallel course.
'Linda, take these, give me the camera. There's a ruddy great American task force down there. At a guess it's heading straight for Britain.'
He was operating the camera as he spoke. He swivelled it at different angles, trying to take in the whole of the vast battle fleet. Then the overcast reappeared, blotted out everything. Henderson stood motionless for a minute, his index finger tapping the side of the camera he was no longer operating.
'Frank,' he said to the co-pilot, 'have you heard anything about a major American task force heading for British waters?'
'No.'
'Neither have I,' said Linda. 'And I read the newspapers from page to page. Nothing on the radio. Nothing on TV.'
'I think I'm going to send a detailed and urgent radio signal to the Ministry of Defence,' Henderson decided.
45
Tweed first attempted to call Monica, using Beck's mobile. He had to give up eventually — the line was constantly engaged. Instead he called Roy Buchanan, reaching the Chief Inspector immediately.
'Tweed!' Buchanan sounded triumphant. 'The bullet matches.'
'Pardon?'
His mind had been elsewhere, replaying the breakfast conversation in the Ritz dining room when Osborne had joined the party.
'The bullet!' Buchanan repeated. 'Remember? You called me from Freiburg, told me to have the plane carrying the body of Sir Guy Strangeways met here: I personally was on the spot when the machine landed at Heathrow. I had a top doctor standing by, had the body rushed to him. He performed the autopsy, dug out the bullet which killed Strangeways. I had it compared with the bullet which assassinated our Prime Minister. Both bullets matched up perfectly. Which means the. Phantom shot both the PM and Strangeways.'
'He has a lot to answer for...'
'Haven't finished yet. I've sent the Strangeways bullet to Rene Lasalle in Paris' y courier. He'll have it by now. So he can compare it with the bullet which assassinated the French Minister.'
'Very good work, Roy.'
'More yet. I had patrol cars waiting in secret just outside all American airbases in East Anglia. One of them grabbed the big white truck flown in from Germany. Also its driver. You know what was inside that truck?'
'Money.'
'Enough brilliantly forged British banknotes to cause a financial panic here if they'd been distributed. I've got them under heavy guard. Have sent specimens to the Bank of England. They are in a state of shock.'
'This is wonderful news, Roy. Congratulations.'
'We've beaten the so-and-sos,' Buchanan said jubilantly, a man Tweed had never before known to show emotion.
'Hold on, Roy,' he warned. 'I think the monster crisis is yet to come. How about the bombings?'
'None since I surrounded the American Embassy with plain-clothes men.'
'Thank Heaven for that. Just don't relax your efforts one inch.'
Tweed had just put down the phone when it started ringing. He picked it up quickly.
'Hello, who is it?'
'Rene. I'm back. Could you come now to rue.. Lasalle paused. 'Is this phone safe?'
'Yes. I'm on a hacker-proof mobile.'
'Then could you come now to rue des Saussaies? I have news for you.'
'Can you dig out your file on Jean Chatel?'
'It will be waiting for you, my friend.'
'I'm on my way. Oh, can I bring Paula and Newman with me?'
'They will be most welcome.'
Tweed kept his word. He phoned Paula and Newman, asked them to come to his room immediately.
Very few people know about — or notice — rue des Saussaies, the headquarters of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. In other words, French counter-espionage. A short narrow street almost opposite the Elysee Palace, it is passed by without so much as a glance by tourists. The entrance to the nondescript building is halfway along on the left, approached from the Elysêe end. Newman stopped the car at the entrance and Tweed showed the guard his passport. The guard waved them inside.
'M. Lasalle is expecting you, sir.'
Newman parked the car in the small cobbled courtyard at the end of a short stone tunnel. An officer in p
lain clothes led them inside and up an old stone staircase to an office on the first floor. Lasalle rose from behind an old wooden desk to greet his guests.
'Coffee?' he suggested.
'It would help,' Tweed agreed.
Rene Lasalle, in his fifties, was small and slim and sported a neat moustache. He was dressed in a dark business suit and he pulled out a chair for Paula, then, returned to sit behind his desk. A shabby green file was the only object on its surface apart from a telephone.
'The bullet arrived from Chief Inspector Buchanan some time ago,' he began. 'I'm sure you know which bullet I'm referring to.'
'I know very well,' Tweed assured him.
'We have had time,' Lasalle explained in his excellent English, 'to compare it meticulously with the bullet extracted from our late French Minister. It is a perfect match.'
'Then it's the Phantom again.'
'I would like your permission to send this bullet to my colleague in the German police at Wiesbaden, Otto Kuhlmann. For comparison with the bullet extracted from the body of Keller, also assassinated, as you know.'
'Send it by all means,' Tweed urged. 'Is that the file on Jean Chatel?'
'It is. I would ask you to treat its contents with confidentiality. In fact, officially you have never seen it. The Secret Service is very prickly about its documentation. Rightly so, you might agree.'
'Of course.' Tweed read the first few paragraphs, typed in French, then began to comment. 'This states that the real purpose of Jean Chatel's assignment to Washington is illumination. Specifically, is it true the Americans are preparing a plan which would change the geopolitical balance in Europe? Important that this includes the state of Great Britain...' Tweed went on reading.
'It was just over a year ago roughly when Chatel went to Washington, wasn't it?' asked Newman.
'No. Twenty months ago. But it was just over a year ago when he and his wife were murdered in the fake car accident in Virginia.'
'Murdered? You have evidence?' Newman queried. 'Let Tweed read on. You will see then.'
