by Colin Forbes
'Arrangement,' Paula repeated on their way down the three flights. 'Horrible word.'
They reached the ground floor and Paula asked Tweed to wait a moment. Using latex gloves and a powerful torch she went inside the alcove. Tweed stood waiting, hoping she'd hurry up. It was a waste of time.
When Paula emerged after only minutes she was holding something in her gloved hand. She showed it to Tweed. It was a locket. She shone her torch on it as she opened it. On each side was a miniature photo of a woman. Viola on the left, Marina on the right.
'I found it at the entrance to a mousehole, half inside. The murderer must have dropped it when he was changing his gear back to what he was wearing underneath.'
'I wonder how he got hold of that?'
'He stole it. As a trophy. Of his exploits. The bastard.'
They were driving back to Paula's flat in silence. Tweed eventually spoke what was on his mind.
'So, according to Saafeld we may have only three or four days to identify the murderer before another woman is found slaughtered. We'd better get a move on.'
30
They drove back at modest speed to Paula's flat. The streets were silent. A light drizzle had begun to fall. Tweed was tired out, a rare state. Paula lifted a hand to hide a yawn. She too was on her last legs. It had been a long day with the grim climax in Marina's flat.
Driving along the Fulham Road, Tweed turned in to the yard, stopped outside her entrance at the front. He got out to check the inside of her place, left the key in the ignition, something he'd never normally have done. She followed him.
There were no lights in the flat below hers, which was occupied by a woman Paula had assumed had gone abroad. She was usually a night bird with her lights ablaze. She suddenly sensed someone was behind her, caught a faint whiff of chloroform. She sucked in a deep breath, held it. A cloth soaked in the liquid was pressed over her face as another arm wrapped itself round her.
Tweed was aware of nothing. A chloroform cloth was pressed over his face and he took in the full dose, sagging as burly arms caught him. They were dragged round the back, shoved into the rear of a car.
Paula had absorbed a little of the chloroform, enough to put her out of action for a short time. One man leaned in, dragged the hands of Tweed's slumped form, pulled them round his back, clamped on plastic handcuffs.
Paula, now vaguely aware of what was happening, held her hands a few inches apart, in her lap. Plastic handcuffs clamped her wrists together. She was more aware of what was happening now. Two men's voices.
'Get in Tweed's car,' said Radek. 'The friggin' fool has left keys in the ignition. Hide it where ours is parked.'
God! she thought. Fitch and Radek.
'No!' snarled Fitch. 'We leave our own car round the back. It's stolen, so are the plates. It is a Ford - like Tweed's. Take hours for anyone to think it's odd.'
'Why haul the bodies from one car to another? Get behind the wheel, Fitch, and we'll move off now.'
'Guess you could be right. I'll drive. Throw that blanket over 'em. Patrol cars drift round this time of night. Then we head straight for the warehouse . . .'
At one stage during the drive, which seemed to Paula to go on for ever, they stopped briefly in the East End while Radek dumped both treated cloths in a rubbish bin, then moved on.
At one convenient moment Paula stretched her cuffed hands under the blanket to check Tweed's neck pulse. It was beating regularly. He was just unconscious. Eventually the car stopped, waited while Fitch checked no one was in the area. Returning to the car, he gave the order.
'Padlock undone, doors open. Radek, you take Tweed up over your shoulder, I'll take his bedmate,' he said coarsely.
Paula was thrown over Fitch's shoulder, was carried behind Tweed up wide wooden steps, into a large room. Fitch paused to turn on a wall switch. Dim light flooded every corner of the bare room, emanating from lamps attached to the walls.
'What about the car?' Radek wanted to know.
'Forget it. Everyone round 'ere knows I drive Fords, that I'm always changing them. Position them.'
Fitch dumped Paula's limp form on the floor. She could feel all her senses returning suddenly. Radek dropped Tweed without ceremony on the wooden floor. He stood up, walked over to Paula.
'I'll check her for weapons. You do Tweed.'
'No mucking about with her,' Fitch warned, walking nearby to Tweed. 'I know you with wimmin, so watch it.'
Paula stayed slumped as Radek began to check her. His hands explored the upper parts of her body first, pressing into her chest, over the rest of her body slowly, enjoying his work. Paula had dressed quickly. The slim leg holster holding her Beretta was, unusually, strapped to the inside of the leg. Eventually he started running his hands slowly down the outside of her legs from thigh to ankle. She spat savagely in his face. He jumped.
'This one's awake,' he called out, then slapped her very hard across the face, so hard her head jerked sideways.
He stood up, spat back at her, so furious that he didn't continue his search any further. Fitch had found Tweed's bolstered Walther under his arm. He threw it across the room. It landed close to the wall.
'You won't ever be needin' that again, mate,' he told him with a grin.
Tweed's eyes were now open, staring up at Fitch who, despite his ruthlessness, didn't like the look.
'That's right,' he sneered. 'Keep the eyes open. So you can watch the picture show.'
Paula, sitting up now, pretending to sway, watched as Radek bent over the four projectors, aimed at different angles. Looked like the sort of thing you might see in a Hollywood studio. Then she saw four screens, one attached to each wall. What the hell was all this?
'You can manage on your own now,' Radek said, making it a statement. 'I am off to find some beer. Not as good as you get in Bratislava, but good enough. OK?'
'Shove off,' Fitch said rudely.
He was bent over a handle in the floor close to Tweed. He lifted a large round wooden lid, shoved it to one side on the floor. Faintly Paula heard the distant sound of rushing water a long way down in the exposed hole. She didn't like the sound of that.
'What the hell do you want that for?' Radek demanded.
'In case one of them isn't driven barmy for good they'll go down the chute. When you knows me better, Radek, you'll knows I thinks of everything. Now switch on the machines, then piss off and drown yourself in beer.'
Paula saw Fitch fix in earplugs. She was more puzzled than ever. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Radek bend over his apparatus.
'You can stay and watch if you want to,' Fitch bawled out.
'Seen them often enough. Get this lot started and I'm off looking for beer.'
He pressed levers on the projectors, adjusted the focus as pictures began to appear on all four screens. Vile pictures, Paula thought. Tweed had managed to sit up on the floor, his handcuffs behind his back, making him a prisoner.
Radek turned to the other machine, pulled a switch halfway down. A terrible ear-splitting screech filled the warehouse. Nerves on edge, Paula stretched her hands as wide as she could inside her lap. The pictures turned her stomach. A cow tethered in a field. A man with a huge axe appeared, raised it, chopped off the cow's head. Blood welled out, the poor creature's legs jumped madly, even though headless. Then it flopped. A fresh picture on another screen. A peasant woman, tied to a block of stone. A short fat man appeared, also carrying a huge axe. He rested it gently on the woman's exposed neck. Her mouth was wide open, presumably screaming. The fat man raised the axe, brought it down with a tremendous swipe, took her head right off the neck. It rolled on the ground. He kicked it towards the screen. It vanished. Paula glanced at all the screens. On each some hideous massacre was taking place. She forced down a feeling of sickness. Three women tied to a huge rock were approached by three men carrying axes. Execution was going to be synchronized.
Paula sucked in her breath as she saw their stomachs were bare. The target for the axes. Fitch walked past her,
then bent down to be close to her ear.
'Not loud enough. I'se turning up the sound.'
Still close to her ear he giggled. Giggled again. That was what did it.
He pressed the switch lower and the walls seemed to tremble under the diabolical blast of sound. The assault on her ear drums. He bent down again, giggled in her ear. He walked away from her to sit on the cheap wooden chair he'd sat on near Tweed, his back to her. She turned sideways, forced her right hand down inside her leg despite the pain of the cuffs, grabbed the Beretta out of its holster.
She aimed at Fitch's back. First bullet in his shoulder. Fired again. Second bullet in the centre of the back, close to the spine. Swinging round she emptied her gun at the projector, the sound system. The pictures died. An uncanny silence.
It all happened so quickly. She swung round. Tweed had heaved his whole body against the chair, toppling chair and Fitch over sideways. The thug slid to the edge of the chute, legs vanishing inside it, hands desperately clinging to the lip of the hole.
Tweed forced himself upright. Stiffening his legs, he stood above Fitch's terrified face as Paula staggered alongside him. Fitch was screaming. Nothing like the screams the poor women in the film must have uttered, Paula thought.
'Help me! Please! Help me,' Fitch gasped.
Tweed raised one foot. Stamped it down hard on one of the hands supporting him. The other hand let go. Fitch was plunging down the circular metallic chute, both hands flat against the metal, desperately hoping for support. There was none. They heard a faint gurgle as he sank below the torrent of water surging towards the Thames. Then only rushing water.
31
Tweed drove back with Paula to her apartment. He had told her he would sleep on her sofa in her living room and, relieved, she had thanked him. Both were suffering a reaction but there was something else that had to be done. To safeguard her, Tweed took Paula with him.
Arriving back at her place, they both wore gloves before climbing into the Ford that Fitch had left parked behind the house. Luckily Fitch had left the ignition key on the front seat, ready to come back and make a quick getaway. Again, luckily, on first leaving the warehouse, they had found the ignition key to Tweed's car left in the same place. Fitch had not wanted to waste any time at either end.
Tweed drove Fitch's car while Paula drove his, keeping close behind him. Tweed found a deserted side street in the East End, left the Ford there, moved behind the wheel of his own car and drove it back to the concealed area behind her flat. Earlier they had freed each other from the handcuffs.
After all this they were very tired. Tweed had a brief snack Paula prepared him before she went to her bedroom. She should sleep like a babe, he felt sure as he perched on the sofa with coffee, his Walther on the cushion by his side.
Any fear that he might drop off to sleep disappeared as he took out his cartridge-paper notebook. In it he listed every single person connected with the murder case - and anyone else who had been involved in their enquiries.
It was a murky dawn when Paula, to his surprise, came in fully dressed.
'Didn't expect you for ages,' he greeted her.
'Had a strange dream. Don't know why. I was alone in the office when the door opened. A man came in, gripped a meat cleaver. As he came towards me I was scared stiff. His weird eyes staring at me through those weird glasses. I tried to scream and nothing came out. Then I woke up.'
'Who was it?'
'Benton Macomber. In those funny glasses.'
Tweed did not have to check his list to know that among his long list of suspects was Benton Macomber. He told her dreams were a poor substitute for fact and she agreed. Then she said she'd made breakfast because afterwards she was going off to see someone.
'Who might that be? It will be very early.'
'Coral Flenton. I know she gets up at unearthly early hours. I'll probably be just in time to share a cup of coffee with her.'
Later Tweed drove Paula down to Covent Garden so she could see Coral. He was careful to park in a slot before he reached her flat entrance, but at a point where he could see it. Paula had entered the place a few minutes before Tweed saw someone.
The Parrot, wearing a long coat with her hair obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, suddenly appeared and stopped on the other side of the street opposite the entrance. She opened a newspaper, pretended to read it. It was obvious to Tweed she was watching Coral's entrance. Why?
Inside, when Coral, fully dressed, had let Paula in, she had showed pleasure at the arrival of her visitor. In the living room she had offered coffee, which Paula had accepted.
'What about breakfast?' Coral asked.
'I've had some. What about yourself?'
'Finished it half an hour ago. It really is lovely to see you. Did you get my note?'
'I was just going to thank you for it,' Paula replied, seated in an armchair opposite her hostess. 'You sounded so excited. A new boyfriend? Or shouldn't I ask?'
'It's a secret. I've changed my mind about telling you. I'm sorry, but I'll let you know if it works out. Now I'll show you the rest of my safe harbour.'
Across the hall was a door leading into a fairly large bedroom. A double bed with a headboard occupied the bulk of the space. The floor was polished wood with a rug on each side where you would step out in the morning. A tasteful dressing table was perched against the far wall.
'Check the closets,' Coral urged. 'I should say wardrobes but you'll see why I used the American term.'
Paula opened one of the two double doors, which had to be pulled hard to overcome a tendency to stick. She was surprised. The depth and width of the 'closet' was spacious. She walked inside, like entering a small room. Three coats suspended on hangers caught her attention. One a camel hair, another a smart evening coat, the third a smart raincoat. Coral chuckled and gently pushed the door almost closed. A light came on inside. Coral opened the door.
'The wiring's set up the wrong way. The light should come on when you open it. I'm getting it fixed.'
'Nice coats,' Paula remarked as she stepped out.
'Expensive.'
'The new boyfriend?' Paula chaffed her.
'Not yet! My aunt married a rich man a few months ago and generously sent me a very fat cheque. I blew it on those coats.'
'You're on top of the world, then.'
'Not entirely.' Coral's expression changed.
'Why? Is anything the matter?'
'I'm bothered about a man who stalks me. I'm walking along a street and I know he's behind me. I look back and he's gone. It's bothersome.'
'Description?'
'I never see him. I just know he's there. Must sound a bit silly. Maybe I've got too much imagination. Women do sometimes get this idea in their head.' She laughed. 'It probably comes down to vanity.'
Paula studied her. The Parrot was an attractive woman but older. That could upset some women. Coral was younger and a stunner. About five feet three inches tall, she was slim and her red hair piled on top of her head was seductive. Her features were perfectly moulded: a fine forehead, her eyes large above a perfect nose and a full mouth. Yes, some older women could come to hate her.
'Do you know anything about the Parrot's earlier life?'
'She grew up in the Midlands, in some place called Walkhampton. A small industrial town, I gather. She was educated in a prep school and then passed into a grammar. She left Walkhampton when she was twenty, came down here, whipped through the civil service exam. Her parents died in a car crash soon after she'd arrived down here. After passing top in the exam she set to work - she's said this to me - to push her way up quickly, shoving other people out of the way.'
'But now she's turned friendly with you?' Paula suggested.
'She did. I told you about that. Now she's turned really nasty again. She humiliates me.' Coral mimicked the Parrot's way of speaking fast. '"Miss Flenton, I gave you these pencils to be sharpened. They've still got thick ends. I need them with needle points. Try again. Can't you do even a simple job
like that properly? Your problem is you're lazy. Spend half your time thinking about men, I suspect. Men are for when you've left the building. That is, if you can find one. Well, don't just listen to me. Sharpen those damned pencils." She's started finding fault with everything,' Coral concluded.
'Goes up and down a bit, doesn't she?'
'A friend of mine in the next department thinks she's manic. Bit strong, I thought. I suppose she based her idea on the Parrot's wild mood swings. Sorry to drop all this stuff on you. Next time we won't mention my job.'
