by Colin Forbes
He carefully replaced the chair in exactly the same place. Opening the creaking door to the outside, he stood listening. It had started to drizzle. He swore to himself, shrugged, went out and locked the door with the rusty key.
Fortunately he was wearing his rainproof jacket with a hood, which he pulled over his head. Tolhaven next - and the mystery of Harber's Yard.
Inside Tweed's flat Paula had completed a second search for incriminating objects. Nothing. Meanwhile, Tweed had taken a long shower, dried and shaved, then dressed. He was beginning to feel more normal. He walked into the bedroom to find the light on and Paula peering down into the street.
'Another visitor,' she informed him. 'In a limo. It's Professor Saafeld, of all people. I'll go down, let him in . . .'
Tweed was walking up and down to check the stability of his movements when two pairs of feet clattered up the stairs. He was puzzled. Professor Saafeld, his friend, was the most eminent pathologist in Britain, called in by the police on major cases.
With bushy white hair the gnome-like professor, his eyes so alert even at this early hour, smiled as he came in carrying a bag, followed by Paula.
'On the bed,' he ordered Tweed. 'Stretch out.'
'What the hell for?' demanded Tweed.
'Do as you're told. Paula has given me a brief account of your adventures last night. You were drugged, I gather - in a margarita. Clever. That drink conceals most drugs. I'm giving you a blood test. Then I can analyse what was fed into you.'
He was extracting a large hypodermic needle as he spoke. Paula grabbed a towel from the bathroom, spread it on the bed so Tweed needn't take off his shoes. His sleeve rolled up, with a sigh Tweed allowed himself to be subjected to what he regarded as an unnecessary bother. Saafeld extracted his blood sample in no time, applied a sticking plaster, placed the needle in a white metal sleeve.
'Should be able to report to you what it was before the end of the day,' he explained in his rapid way of speaking. 'I'm on my way to a particularly hideous murder, called in by your friend Commander Roy Buchanan.'
'Who was murdered?' asked Tweed.
'A Miss Viola Vander-Browne, at her flat in Covent Garden. Sounds like a psycho. All her limbs have been chopped off, and her head. The truly hideous aspect is the killer finished up by arranging the severed limbs, and the head, in roughly the way she was when alive. On her bed. Must fly - before some clod of a policeman messes up a vital clue. You have a day in bed,' he called out from the door as he left.
Paula followed him out to make sure the front door was secured behind him, then darted back upstairs, her expression serious.
Tweed was standing perfectly erect in front of a mirror while he adjusted his tie. He swung round and smiled at her. Then he paced back and forth rapidly, smiled again, concealing his sense of shock.
'You're feeling better?' Paula enquired anxiously.
'Thought I'd just demonstrated that. So Saafeld is haring off to the murder scene. Roy called him,' - referring to his old friend Commander Roy Buchanan.
'Was Viola Vander-Browne the woman you had dinner with at Mungano's last night?' she said nervously.
'Don't look so worried. I didn't murder her . . . But I shall always curse myself for not seeing her safely to her apartment.'
He opened the wardrobe, fished out from the top pocket of the coat he'd worn the previous evening the card Viola had tucked in. 'She lives - or lived - in Fox Street.'
'I know it. I used it one evening this winter to visit a girl friend of mine in Covent Garden. It's a short cut to Covent Garden across King Street - this side of King Street. I didn't like it at night. Rather narrow, cobbled, and very lonely. A weird atmosphere. I hurried to get through it. I've something rather ugly to tell you . . .'
She explained how she'd noticed the front door had been tampered with. How she had searched his room while he was unconscious - and what she'd found in a drawer before handing it over to Newman. She described the arrival of two black cars and men with long black coats., how Newman had dealt with them.
'Long black coats,' Tweed responded. 'Any caps? Yes, I see. And with armlets on their sleeves. I don't like the sound of the way things are going. We'll leave for the office.'
In his first-floor office with large windows looking towards Regent's Park, Tweed was settled behind his antique desk (a present from his staff) when the visitor arrived. Paula was seated at her desk in a corner. Monica, a middle-aged woman with her hair tucked up in a bun and his faithful secretary for years, sat behind her desk by the door working at her word-processor. Two other key members of his team were also present. Harry Butler, a Cockney, wearing an old windcheater and shabby slacks, sat crosslegged on the floor. His partner, Pete Nield, sat in a chair close to Paula's desk.
Partners, but their contrast in personality and dress were striking. Nield, in his late thirties, wore a smart suit with a well-pressed shirt and a smart tie. They had listened in silence while Tweed told them of recent events.
'You was set up,' Harry growled. 'Timing was all worked out by a planner. Chose the wrong man. We'll locate 'im -and when we do if I'm there he'll end up in 'ospital. . .'
He stopped talking as the phone rang, Monica answered, then looked at Tweed.
'You won't believe this but Commander Roy Buchanan is downstairs, requesting to see you urgently.'
'Wheel him up, then.'
They heard feet clumping quickly up the stairs. Paula stared in disbelief as Buchanan entered the room. Instead of his usual business suit, he was clad in full-dress uniform as Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad, a temporary appointment since he was normally Superintendent of the CID.
'Good morning, Roy,' Tweed greeted him amiably. 'Why the fancy dress?'
'I'm here in an official capacity,' Buchanan said grimly, his expression stern as he seated himself in front of Tweed's desk.
'Hello, Roy,' Paula called out cheerfully.
'Good morning, Miss Grey,' he replied, glancing at her briefly.
'Oh, it's Miss Grey now,' she said, her tone icy. 'Sorry if I forgot to stand up and salute.'
'Roy, what is all this?' Tweed asked placidly.
'I need to know where you were between the hours of eleven last night and three this morning.'
'No, we don't play it that way. Not after we've known each other for umpteen years,' Tweed replied, still placid. 'What is all this about? Relax for Heaven's sake.'
Tweed's persuasive attitude had an effect on even the strong-minded Buchanan. He grabbed his cap out of his lap, dropped it on the floor as though he disliked the damned thing. He took a deep breath.
'All right. There's been a horrific murder. A Miss Viola Vander-Browne. Saafeld estimates the time of death as roughly between eleven p.m. and one a.m. - probably closer to eleven. The poor woman has been cut to pieces. I had an anonymous tip-off on the phone early this morning that I should check where you were last night. Chief Inspector Hammer is in charge of the case. Back at the Yard he's nicknamed the Bulldozer. He was coming over but I stopped him, came myself. Sergeant Warden, my assistant, will be coming over tomorrow to take a statement from you. You know - knew - Miss Vander-Browne?'
'I'm not making any statement at this stage,' Tweed responded. 'But I think I'll investigate the case myself.'
'I wish you would. In your position you do have the authority. Hammer won't like it, but I don't like him. I hesitated to ask you - for certain reasons.' He stood up.
'Thanks for those reports from your agents abroad. Things seem quiet at the moment. I'd better get back now.'
'You're forgetting your cap,' Paula called out as he moved to the door.
'Oh, thank you.' He came back, picked up the cap. 'Lose my head if this pressure keeps up.' He walked over to her, his hand extended. 'I'm sorry about my attitude earlier, Paula. I was on edge when I arrived.'
She shook his hand, gave him a big smile. 'Aren't we all at times.'
'Roy,' Tweed asked, 'what sort of voice was it, whoever gave you the tip-off?'
'Unrecognizable. Hoarse. Coarse. Keep in touch.'
It was Harry, still crosslegged on the floor, who exploded the moment Buchanan was gone.
'It's that bloody uniform. What does he think he is these days? Admiral of the Fleet? The fleet we haven't got!'
Fifteen minutes later Tweed was checking through reports when the phone rang again. Monica answered, then gazed at Tweed.
'You won't believe this one either. Another visitor. Nelson Macomber, one of the notorious Cabal.'
5
'I think this gentleman would prefer to talk to me on our own,' Tweed said before asking Monica to invite Macomber up. 'Harry, put the recorder on - then you can all listen afterwards. No, Paula, don't go. I want you to stay. You're very good at getting an impression on a new player in this deadly game.'
Monica left to go upstairs, followed by Nield and Butler. Only then did he lift the phone and tell George, the guard in the hall, to ask their visitor to come up.
Macomber came into the office. He wore an Armani suit, and a tie Paula felt sure was Chanel. He moved easily and was smiling. He bowed his head towards Paula, still smiling. She rather liked the look of him.
'Good morning, Mr Macomber,' Tweed greeted him quietly. 'Do please sit down.'
'My apologies,' Macomber said softly, looking at Paula, 'but I will be speaking to you, Mr Tweed, in great confidence.'
'If I was away or out of action Miss Paula Grey would take over from me,' Tweed explained.
Macomber's reaction was swift. He stood up, and smiling pleasantly he walked over to Paula, held out his large hand to her.
'Miss Grey, my profound apologies. I am not familiar with the ranking here. You are most welcome to hear all I have to say.'
She clasped his hand which squeezed hers, but did not hold on too long. He returned to his chair. His movements were agile for a man she estimated was in his forties.
'Now, Mr Tweed,' Macomber began in his soft voice, 'I have heard you are a man who does not beat about the bush. So am I. I have come to discuss with you the proposed merger of all the security forces under one command. That is the CID, MI5, the police, the coastguard, Special Branch - and the SIS, your own organization. This single organization will be known as State Security. We are thinking you would make an excellent deputy commander.'
'Under whose control?' Tweed asked off-handedly.
He had listened to this revolutionary scheme with a placid expression. Paula, who was appalled, gasped under her breath. She felt sure Tweed would never agree.
'Under the control of a Cabinet Minister heading a new post in the Cabinet, as yet to be created: the Ministry of State Security.'
'Earlier,' Tweed remarked, 'you used the word "proposed". I am interested in what that means.'
'Well . . .' Still smiling, Macomber paused. 'At the moment a bill to establish this organization has been drafted, but not yet presented to Parliament.'
'All the Cabinet agree?' There was a sharper edge in Tweed's voice.
'Well. . .' Another pause. 'At the moment almost half the Cabinet do agree. It's only a matter of time before the slowcoaches come on board.'
'Mr Macomber . . .' Tweed leaned forward over his desk.
'Please call me Nelson.'
'I have heard there are three junior ministers involved. You are one of them. Who are the others?'
'You may find this curious. The other two are brothers of mine. We are offspring of the famous General Lucius Macomber, known for his brilliance in the Gulf War.'
'Tell me about your brothers - and their roles.'
Tweed had folded his arms, leaning over them. His eyes had never left Nelson Macomber's, penetrating and the colour of lapis lazuli, which was rare.
'There is Noel, the youngest. We call him the Planner. Then there is Benton, a year younger than me. He acts as arbiter in the rare cases when there is disagreement on policy.'
'The three of you,' Tweed said thoughtfully.
'We do work closely together in the same room . . .'
'Communications?' Tweed interjected.
'Ah!' Macomber beamed. 'We have the most advanced system in the country. State Security will need to know what is going on everywhere. Phone-tapping, a CCTV system covering the entire country . . .'
'Already installed?' Tweed interjected again.
'In the process of being installed,' Macomber assured him. 'Should be completed within weeks.'
'On whose authority?'
Macomber laughed, glanced over at Paula. 'This is getting to be an interrogation.'
'Which is my job,' Tweed reminded him. 'On whose authority?' he repeated. 'Since the bill you spoke of has not gone anywhere near Parliament.'
'We must be prepared.' Macomber's tone became defensive. 'So, what is your reaction? I have hidden no secrets from you.'
'I'll have to think it over, won't I? All this comes as a surprise.'
No, it doesn't, you wily thing, Paula thought. You knew all about it before Nelson Macomber ever arrived.
'Tell you what,' Tweed continued. 'In the near future I'd like to visit your HQ, meet your brothers. I'd bring Paula with me.'
'Great!' Macomber jumped up. 'I appreciate the time you've given me. Do come and see us soon. Time is breathing down our necks. Needless to say all this is highly confidential.'
'Uniforms,' Tweed said suddenly. Macomber paused on his way to say goodbye to Paula. He looked taken aback. Tweed explained.
'I just wondered whether you proposed that after the merger of all these diverse organizations everyone would wear the same uniform?'
'Well. . .' He was close enough to Paula for her to notice he was clenching and unclenching the fingers of his right hand. 'Bit early to think of that,' he went on cheerfully. 'We had thought of a long black coat, black cap, an armlet identifying the wearer as State Security. But a bit early to decide,' he repeated.
'I see.'
'May I call you Paula?' Macomber asked, holding out a hand. 'I am Nelson.'
'If you wish,' she said quietly, clasping his hand which, again, he withdrew quickly.
'What do you think?' Tweed asked after Macomber had left.
Paula was peering out of the window. 'He does well for himself. He turned up in a whacking great Merc with chauffeur.' She sat down again. 'I'm flabbergasted,' she began. 'I'd expected you to roar at him, tell him you thought the whole idea was wrong, mad - that you'd have nothing to do with it!'
'He's a skilled politician,' Tweed told her. 'I can handle any of them. When he reports back to his two brothers they won't be at all sure what I'm going to do.'
'So what are you going to do?'
'Everything in my power, however unscrupulous, to smash them - to destroy the whole plan.' His voice was a muted growl, his eyes were fierce. 'Strange that he came to see me a few hours after someone tried to frame me for committing a horrific murder. And they're already in uniform. So he lied.'
'So he probably lied about a lot of other things.'
'Undoubtedly. Bring down Monica, Pete and Harry. When I tell you, play back the recording of the whole conversation. I don't think it occurred to him it was all going down on tape.' He looked up at the cornice in the ceiling above Paula's desk. Harry had done a marvellous job of concealing the listening device. 'And you took photos of him?'
'Several. He didn't see me doing it.' She produced a tiny camera with a long lens which retracted out of sight when she pressed a button.
She had just finished speaking when the door opened and Monica walked in, followed by Nield and Butler. Monica spoke to Tweed quickly.
'While we were upstairs I had a call for you from Professor Saafeld. He has data he wants to show you urgently. At his place in Holland Park . . .'
'Call him back when I've left. Tell him I'm on my way now. While I'm away get the recorder moving.' He looked at all three of the new arrivals. 'You'll hear my conversation with Macomber - Nelson Macomber. Keep what you hear under your hats.'
'Never wear a hat,' Harry told
him with a straight face.
Tweed glared, went on speaking.
'Nield, when you've heard it I want you to get moving. Check with your informants. I need to know if the other two brothers, Noel and Benton, are married. If so, who to. We know Nelson is married to Loelia, daughter of the Earl of Something. Do any of them have girlfriends? If so who are they and where do they live?'
