Despite street lamps outside it was pitch black in the shadows. Marler was the first to spot a figure crouched on the pavement on the far side of the main road. They separated, Marler approaching from the left, Harry from the right. The figure remained motionless. Close up he saw it was a tramp, his black overcoat old, rumpled and stained.
'What are you doing here?' Marler demanded.
'Been here quite a while,' Harry said, guessing.
'Got a fiver, sir?' the tramp asked. 'I haven't eaten for hours.'
Marler frowned. He was surprised at how well educated the tramp's voice was. What was going on?
'For a tramp you speak pretty well,' he said grimly. 'What's your name?'
'Ken.' A pause. 'Ken Millington. Or Lord Ken Millington at one time eons ago.'
The name triggered off a memory inside Marler's head, the recollection of one of the top-flight journalists Drew Franklin's lighter-weight articles on 'characters'.
He switched on his torch, shone it down on the tramp's face. About forty years old, his face was covered with bristles, his nose was long and sharply pointed. Obviously he hadn't shaved for days. His hands were clad in old woollen gloves with holes in them. His shoes were old, well worn, tied with string instead of laces.
'If you're a lord,' Harry said aggressively, 'why are you in the state you're in? Never seen a tramp with a voice like yours. Tell the truth before I beat you to a pulp. Who was it hired you to keep a watch on our building?'
'Hang on, Harry,' Marler said. 'Better explain yourself now before my friend gets to work on you.'
'There are others like me,' Millington explained. 'In my case I was bored silly by the life my wife wanted to lead. Parties every night. A load of idiots. Then my wife leaves me for a millionaire. I decided I wanted freedom, the freedom to live my own life. No responsibilities. So I walked out on my greedy family - after willing my assets to a charity. I like this life. It's freedom,' he repeated.
'For fifty pounds, maybe more, would you do a job for us?' Marler suggested.
'For fifty I'd jump over the moon. An honest job, you mean?' he asked suspiciously.
'My boss,' Marler continued, 'was almost murdered by a thug. Hired by a rival businessman. The thug speaks English with a French accent. Can't give you much of a description, but he's recently shaved off a dark moustache which curled round the ends of his mouth. He's French and dangerous. If you see anyone lurking round here, watching our building . . .'
'The insurance outfit in the Crescent?'
He was referring to the plate on the wall .outside the entrance to SIS headquarters. It read general & cumbria insurance. It was the cover name for the SIS. Harry was still suspicious.
'How come you noticed that from over here?'
'I walk around an area before I settle for the night - to find the most comfortable perch. It was here with a cushion against the railings.'
'Here is your fifty,' interjected Marler impatiently. 'You see anyone suspicious lurking about, walk slowly over to the insurance building, press the bell, three long rings. The guard will let you in and call me.'
'This is too much money,' Millington protested. 'I'll take ten, then the rest if I can serve you.'
'Keep the lot. . .'
They explained to Tweed what had happened when they returned to the office. Tweed was more impressed than Marler had expected.
'That was a good idea. We need an element of luck to help us.'
'He sounded a fake to me,' Harry commented, disgruntled.
'There are such people,' Paula told him. 'They get fed up with les richesses, yearn for freedom to live their own lives. This Millington apparently said as much.'
'And Lucinda,' Tweed reflected, 'is now on her way driving down to Abbey Grange. I'll be interested in how she phrases her report.'
'I still don't get it,' Paula said sharply.
'We've been absorbed in so many other aspects,' Tweed explained, 'that we'd almost forgotten the existence of Michael. Yet it all started with him. "I witnessed murder." Assuming he is suffering from amnesia.'
'You don't believe the psychiatrists?' Paula mused.
'I don't believe a word anyone has told me. As to your psychiatrists, in a biography of Winston Churchill I read he called them trick cyclists.'
'But could Michael keep up not saying a word all this time?' Paula persisted.
'Unlikely - but not impossible. And at the time of the murders he was allegedly somewhere in the States. Again, like the rest, no alibi. Plus the fact we're up against Armenian deviousness. Their way of life. Larry, Lucinda, Michael all had the same Armenian father, albeit an English mother.'
'Then we can cancel out Aubrey Greystoke,' Paula argued.
'No, we can't. He's been working with Armenians long enough to have picked up their way of thinking.'
The freighter was now sailing a hundred and fifty miles off the French coast. Poring over a chart, Abdul realized the importance of steering well clear of the projecting peninsula of Brittany and the island of Ushant. He changed course, now sailing further northwest.
It had been night but now, in the east, a mix of silver and pink glow was appearing. Dawn. Strictly against maritime law, Abdul was sailing without lights. Gazing ahead, he saw the small French fishing vessel. He gave the swift command to increase speed. That vessel could report the presence of his own ship when it returned to port.
The first warning the French crew aboard the fishing vessel had of the danger was when they saw the looming prow of the freighter almost above them. The prow smashed through the craft, cutting it in two. The two sections of the hull began to sink at once. Abdul saw only one Frenchman dive overboard.
Grabbing his bullhorn, he turned, gave his order in Arabic to two of the men below. They dived over the port side, came up, shook their heads, saw the Frenchman swim towards the distant coast in the hope of finding another fishing vessel. One of the Arabs was a fast swimmer. He came up behind the Frenchman, hauled a large curved knife from his belt, whipped it through the air and sliced off the head of the fisherman.
On the bridge Abdul nodded in satisfaction. His two Arabs were now swimming back to the freighter, where a climbing net had been thrown over the side for them. Abdul saw a pool of gory blood colour the surface where the Frenchman had disappeared. A small wave swept over, dissolved the red pool. Back to normal.
Abdul had also observed that a strong current was carrying debris from the wrecked fishing boat out into the Atlantic. It would also remove the bodies and the decapitated head bobbing on the surface.
'Praise be to Allah,' he said aloud, bowing to the east. 'May he keep the sea calm on our return journey.'
'We're going to see Drago Volkanian,' Tweed told Paula.
'When?' She stood up, parted the curtains cautiously. 'It's only just dawn.'
'Now. Four ninety Jermyn Street is not far away.'
'But won't Drago be asleep? We won't be very welcome.'
'Like me, I don't think he needs much sleep and he's a very worried man. He knows something's going on but I'm sure he doesn't know what it is.'
'And you do?'
'Yes, it's going to be a race against time. There's a deadline, with the emphasis on dead.'
They both had their overcoats on when the phone rang. Monica answered, looked up at Tweed.
'You'll never believe who's downstairs wanting to see you.'
'I will if you tell me quickly.'
'Abel Gallagher, head of Special Branch,' she growled, mimicking Gallagher.
'Coats off,' Tweed ordered. 'Now ask him to come up.'
Tweed was studying a file behind his desk and Paula had returned to hers, when the door opened. The burly bulk of Gallagher stormed in. Tweed invited him to sit down.
'To what do I owe this honour?' he enquired sarcastically.
'We're worried about you. The government is worried about you. You're supposed to be investigating this string of skeleton murders. Details are splashed in headlines all over the press. The publi
c are getting worried. So what do you do? You leave the country, friggin' go abroad. Your place is
'Who says so?'
'I do.'
'And what about this alleged going abroad?'
'An agent of mine at Waterloo spotted you boarding Eurostar. Next stop Paris - and God knows where. What the hell do you think you're playing at?'
'Finished ranting and raving, Abel?' Tweed asked quietly. 'First, my investigation has nothing to do with you. Second, your department has no authority over the SIS. Third, who in the government is losing his nerve?'
'The Home Secretary,' Gallagher announced triumphantly.
'Then I'll get the PM to have a few words with him, after telling him my information source. You.'
'I have to do my job.' Gallagher said plaintively.
'Then go and do it,' Tweed suggested unpleasantly. 'And leave me to do mine. The door is there.'
Gallagher left like a large dog with its tail between its legs.
'You handled that well,' Paula said as she got up and put on her overcoat. 'He collapsed when you mentioned the PM.'
'Jermyn Street next,' said Tweed.
They drove off in the early-morning light with Harry hunched up out of sight in the back, his Walther in his hand. Paula peered out as they headed for Jermyn Street.
'Millie's still there,' she reported.
'Millie?' asked Tweed.
'My nickname for Ken Millington. Gallagher probably has people following us. We know he's into a bookie for a twenty-thousand-pound debt. I suppose he's not a suspect? We are talking about four hundred million pounds gone missing.'
'It's now back in Gantia's huge reserves,' Tweed told her. 'I looked at that document you found in Ivy Cottage. It's a photocopy of a message from Bone in Angora. AB200017 X is its reference. Same as on the document you found at Christine Barton's flat. I think Lee Greystoke was smart. Prowling inside Gantia's plant she found the original on some executive's desk and photocopied it, so the executive responsible wouldn't know she'd been in the place.'
'So who is the filthy murderer?'
'Still no idea. We have to link up the reference with the person . . .'
'We're still all at sea.'
'So is the Oran. Hence the deadline.'
Drago opened the front door himself - doubtless after checking the security mirror above their heads. The outsize Armenian was fully dressed in a grey business suit stretched across his immense shoulders. He was smiling warmly as he invited them to step inside. There was no sign of the brown-faced girl they had seen on their previous visit. They were ushered into the living room as Drago's rumbling voice talked.
'Sir, I like people who can get up early. They are the people who run the world while others sleep. Something to drink? Coffee? I thought so.'
The tallest cafetiere Paula had ever seen occupied the small table close to where they were seated together with the most expensive Rosenthal china. Three cups and saucers and plates. White bread rolls of a kind Paula had never seen before. She bit into one. Fabulous. Drago had poured the coffee.
'Now, Miss Paula, and you, sir, how can I help you? A man after my own heart who never stops. The papers are devoted to this horrible case you are engaged on.'
Once again his personality seemed to fill the large room, so dynamic and forceful. Tweed helped himself to a bread roll, drank some coffee, taking his time. He suddenly looked at their host, held his gaze.
'I'm double-checking. How many people have keys to enter your armaments factory?'
'Larry, of course, then Lucinda, Michael and Greystoke. A key was also in the possession of poor Lee. I do miss her.'
'Why Greystoke?' Tweed wondered. 'He's an accountant.'
'Exactly. You are shrewd to ask. It would seem strange to you that Aubrey was included in the magic circle. Under my supervision modifications — very expensive - were made to the system. So estimates were requested. Aubrey checked the costs as the work proceeded. I am careful with money.'
'I gather,' Tweed went on quietly, as though it were of little importance, 'some kind of lever converts the machines from producing artillery shells to missiles.'
'That, sir, is correct. It's a coded lever.'
'Coded?'
'I designed it myself. A simple code, if you know what it is.' Drago raised a huge index finger, swept it up vertically, then swept it across at right angles, down vertically, and jerked it aside to the right. 'That, of course, isn't the code, but it shows you how it works.'
'Who knows the code?'
'The same people who have keys to the armaments plant. Lucinda, Larry, Greystoke and Michael.'
'And some time ago you decided you'd produce no more missiles, that the plant would only manufacture artillery shells.'
'Absolutely. A complete ban on missiles. For ever.'
'I see.' Tweed paused, took a while drinking the rest of his coffee before he continued. 'So it would perturb you to know that someone has operated the coded lever and has been producing missiles on a large scale recently?'
The effect this suggestion produced on Drago was dramatic. His whole personality changed. His normally benevolent face was transformed into a state of savage fury. His massive jaw clenched, his mouth tightened until the lips almost vanished, his bony structure became prominent, his eyes narrowed into vicious slits. Tweed waited. Eventually Drago found his voice, a ferocious rumble.
'How can you know that such an atrocity is being perpetrated?'
'From various sources of information picked up from different places. They lead to only one conclusion. Some forty missiles have been - or are being - produced.' Tweed fired another shot. 'And are you aware that for a certain period of time the sum of four hundred million pounds went missing from your reserves?'
'Four hundred million?'
Drago's expression had now become apoplectic. Paula decided they were now seeing the real Drago, the man who had escaped from the inferno of Armenia, probably injuring or killing anyone who stood in his way. Tweed reached for the cafetiere, refilled Paula's cup, his own, then offered to refill Drago's. The reaction was a brutal wave of his huge hand, refusing the offer. They waited, sipping their coffee.
It was obvious Drago was fighting for self-control. Gradually he settled back more peacefully into his large chair. He gazed at Tweed and rested a shaking hand on the arm of his chair before he could speak in a normal voice.
'You know which of the four is responsible for this act of treachery?'
'Not yet. My next visit may enlighten me.'
'Then I shall leave immediately for ... the plant.'
'Dartmoor?'
'My destination is my affair.'
'Now.' Tweed leaned forward. 'I will tell you what you are going to do. You will stay here at Jermyn Street until you hear from me. Is that clearly understood?' he said grimly. 'There are factors - dangerous international factors - you know nothing about. Your intervention could ruin my investigation.' Tweed stood up abruptly, his tone still grim. 'I rely on you to do exactly as I have suggested. Do not stir from here. You don't know enough. I do. Thank you for your hospitality. I must keep moving. Time is not on our side.'
Paula had also stood up, was about to follow when Drago gently took hold of her arm. He whispered so only Paula caught what he said.
'You know, my dear, if Tweed was available I would hire him at a huge sum to take over control of Gantia.'
As they climbed into their car the invisible Harry called out quietly from the rear.
'No one came near the car while you were away. The desperate enthusiasts are just beginning to appear, hurrying on foot to their jobs.'
'Desperate enthusiasts?' queried Paula, puzzled.
'The ones with bosses who arrive at eight in the morning. To check up on their staff.'
'How on earth do you know that?' she wondered.
'Got a drinking pal who works in a big firm. He told me he does that. Said life has become a pressure cooker, that in a few years' time at this rate half of them will end
up in a hospital or an asylum.'
'He's got a point,' said Paula as they drove along the deserted Mall. 'Quality's gone out of the window. Speed, speed, speed is all they think of.'
'And,' Harry concluded, 'some of them walk miles now the Tube and the trains are so bad.'
'Are we heading for that stockbroker's?' she asked. 'The one whose name Professor Saafeld found on a screwed-up ball of paper under the foot of the first skeleton we found on Dartmoor?'
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