Cross of Fire

by Colin Forbes

  'Don't like Rubens.'

  'What were your sources for discovering one of my minor activities is armaments?' Dawlish suddenly shot at her.

  Paula paused. She sensed the situation could turn ugly. Dawlish was not a man accustomed to being turned down by females. His attitude and expression had become aggressive. The phone rang. Dawlish pursed his thick lips with annoyance, picked up the instrument off a table.

  'What the devil is it? Who did you say was calling? I see. Hell, you'd better put him on.'

  'Dawlish here ...'

  'Chief Inspector Buchanan speaking,' a voice interrupted him. 'I know you have a Paula Grey visiting you,' Tweed continued. 'I want her to drive back at once to the Brudenell Hotel for questioning. When I say at once I mean now.'

  'It's not convenient just at this moment...'

  'Make it convenient, I'm investigating a murder case -that takes priority over everyone's convenience. Put her on the line, Dawlish. Now!'

  Dawlish looked grim. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. He decided to try once more to delay his guest's departure.

  'She could leave within about an hour...'

  'And I could send a patrol car over there to fetch her. I'm beginning to wonder about your reluctance to cooperate.' Tweed continued.

  'Just a moment.'

  Dawlish shoved the phone at Paula. His tone was brittle. He raised his voice so it would carry along the line.

  'Chief Inspector Plod insists on speaking to you. He'll give you his own message.'

  'Miss Grey?' Tweed went on speaking quickly. 'This is Chief Inspector Buchanan. Would you kindly drive back to the Brudenell Hotel immediately. I have further information I need from you...' Tweed dropped to a whisper, using his normal voice. 'Get out of there at once. I don't like the sound of Dawlish's mood.'

  Paula managed to keep her expression blank.. Earlier it had sounded exactly like Buchanan.

  'Very well, Chief Inspector. I can't imagine how I can help, but as you insist I'm leaving now. I should be with you inside half an hour. Goodbye.'

  Handing back the receiver, she put her notebook and pen inside her shoulder bag. Standing up, she walked swiftly to the cupboard, slipped on her coat before Dawlish could reach her, turned round.

  'I'm sure I have enough for my Woman's Eye piece. I would like to thank you for your courtesy in agreeing to see me.'

  Dawlish shoved a hand into the pocket of his jodhpurs. He looked grim and highly unsatisfied. He stood like a wooden statue as he asked the question.

  'What was all that about? Are you in trouble?'

  'I discovered the body of a girl who was strangled on the marshes near Aldeburgh not so long ago.'

  'I read about it. Karin...' He snapped the thick fingers of his other hand. 'Somebody-or-Other.'

  'Rosewater.' She watched his eyes, which were like bullets again. 'She was German with an English husband. No one can work out why she was murdered.'

  'Some psychopath probably. You'd better go and meet Mr Flatfoot. I just wonder how he knew you were here.'

  'He knows I'm staying at the Brudenell. He only had to make enquiries - I asked some of the staff how to get to Grenville Grange.' Paula lied easily.

  'Don't forget my invitation to join me for a trip aboard the Cat.' Dawlish reminded her as he escorted her to the spacious entrance hall and the front door. 'Here is my card with my ex-directory number. Don't print that, for God's sake.'

  'I promise.' Paula said, taking the gold-edged embossed card.

  'Just call me when you're available.' Dawlish urged her affably, one hand on her arm. 'I'll give you several dates.'

  Paula turned her head suddenly as he opened one of the double doors. Leading into the hall was a single door to her right and it had been open about a foot. In the gap she caught a glimpse of a man watching her and then it closed.

  'Drive carefully.' Dawlish advised jovially as she left, running down the terrace steps and across to her car.

  She sank into the seat behind the wheel, sighing with relief. Dawlish had an overwhelming personality and she'd exhausted herself fighting him off. She switched on the ignition and spoke to herself as she drove down the gravel drive towards the gates which were opening automatically.

  'Thank God for Tweed .. .'

  Inside Grenville Grange Dawlish walked to the door in the right-hand wall, opened it and glared at the man waiting inside.

  'I just hope to hell she didn't see you, idiot. Now follow me and report, Lieutenant Berthier.'

  *

  At Park Crescent Monica gazed in astonishment at Tweed. He had just completed his call to Grenville Grange.

  'In all the years I've known you.' Monica began, 'I'd no idea you were such a good mimic. You really sounded just like Chief Inspector Buchanan.'

  'Oh, I have hidden talents.' Tweed smiled wrily and polished his glasses on his handkerchief. 'Now, we must move fast. Get me Rene Lasalle...'

  'I'm on scrambler, René.' Tweed warned when the call came through.

  'So am I. The situation here is grim...'

  'I'm working on it,' Tweed assured him. 'So is most of my team. Round the clock. I need certain items urgently ...'

  'Which are?'

  'When Paula and I met you in Paris you showed us some photos from a certain gentleman's dossier. Can you send me quickly copies of photos of the following - Josette. You know who I mean?'

  'Yes. Who else?'

  'Major Lamy, de Forge, and Jean Burgoyne.'

  'I'll make copies from the negatives myself, send them to you by personal courier. Code-name Versailles. I will also send you one of someone else. A Lieutenant Andr6 Berthier. On Lamy's staff. Could be a key liaison officer - and something else. That's it?'

  Tor the moment. Keep in touch...'

  'Who is Josette?' Monica enquired.

  'General de Forge's wife. When Newman goes back into France he'll need to be able to identify the main players.'

  'Won't that be dangerous - after what happened when he was there recently?'

  'Very dangerous, but knowing Bob he'll insist on going back. He was worried about that girl, Isabelle, who is hiding away in Arcachon. And something else intriguing cropped up in my conversation with Lasalle ...'

  He repeated Lasalle's comment about Lieutenant Berthier, telling her a photograph was on the way.

  'That was a cryptic remark.' Monica commented. 'What do you think he meant?'

  'No idea,' Tweed said quickly, too quickly. Talking about Newman going back to France reminds me.' Unlocking a drawer, he took out the photograph of Sergeant Rey handed to him by Lasalle in Paris. 'Come and look at this specimen.'

  'Don't like the look of him one little bit,' Monica decided after studying the photograph.

  'Sergeant Rey. I think his rank is deceptive, maybe a cover. He's de Forge's expert on boobytraps. Have the Engine Room make six copies. Newman must have one -and I may send him back-up when the time comes. Anyone who goes near Third Corps - or Bordeaux, for that matter -needs a copy of that reptile.'

  'I'll get it done now...'

  'No. First, get me Chief Inspector Kuhlmann on the line. Let's hope he's at his Wiesbaden HQ.'

  'You really are moving,' Monica remarked as she went back to her desk and began dialling the number from memory.

  'I don't think we have much time left...'

  'Kuhlmann here,' a familiar growly voice introduced himself on the phone. 'On scrambler. And you'd damn well better be.'

  'I am. Otto. Something has happened from your tone of voice.'

  'I'm on the track of this Siegfried movement. Imported terrorists planning to create all hell over here.'

  'Any leads?' Tweed asked quietly.

  'Yes. I got a tip-off. From an Englishman. We raided an address in Freiburg, found a small cache of arms and explosives. To be precise, six Kalashnikov rifles, five pounds of Semtex explosive, timers, and other devices for making half a dozen bombs.'

  'And how many Siegfried terrorists?'

  'None. The bird
s had flown. Not even a fingerprint in the apartment. They'd cleaned up so well I think they must have had a woman with them. Any luck at your end?'

  'We're trying. I may have news soon. Patience, Otto. Is that friend of yours, Stahl, still at the same address you gave me?'

  'Affirmative.'

  'Incidentally, that tip-off from an Englishman. Would it have anything to do with The Name of the Rose?' Tweed asked, quoting the title of a famous novel.

  'Yes, it would. Let's leave it at that. And I may fly to London soon. Even scramblers can be intercepted ...'

  Tweed put down the phone, disturbed. The same sinister atmosphere seemed to prevail in Wiesbaden as in Paris. A diabolical air of nervousness and mistrust among men at the top about their staffs. First Lasalle, now Kuhlmann.

  'Who is Stahl?' Monica asked.

  'Give me one of the top secret cards. Thanks. Stahl is an agent of Kuhlmann's operating under cover inside Bordeaux ...' He was writing on the card as he spoke. 'This gives the address, phone number - and the French name he's using. I want an envelope for Newman kept in the safe.' He handed back the card. 'That goes in Newman's envelope. Add to it the copy of the photo of the evil gnome-like Sergeant Rey when you've got it from the Engine Room.'

  'Will do. What was that business about The Name of The Rose?'

  'Kuhlmann had a tip-off about one of the safe houses used by Siegfried. The tip-off came from Captain Victor Rosewater. I told you about our meeting him with Paula in Basle. Paula thinks he'd make good material for us.' 'Sounds as though Paula could be right.'

  At Grenville Grange Dawlish had taken a long phone call from New York as soon as he entered the living room with Lieutenant Berthier. The Frenchman stood staring down the lawn to the landing stage. Beyond, in the wide loop of the river Aide, a luxurious yacht was moored to a buoy. He watched as a motorboat left the yacht with three men aboard. They headed the craft for the landing stage, jumped ashore, ran up the edge of the lawn and disappeared round the side of the mansion. They were a tough-looking crew: well-built men in their thirties, who moved with athletic strides.

  'All right, Berthier,' Dawlish called out. 'Get to it. What news do you bring?'

  Berthier, erect, swung round on his heel, felt for his tinted glasses, pressed them deeper into his top pocket. Dawlish's manner was abrupt, his tone brusque.

  'I was ordered to ask you when the next consignment would arrive.'

  'Consignment of what?'

  Dawlish watched Berthier's reaction closely. His visitor's eyes were blank, unblinking.

  'I have no idea, sir. The message was exactly as I have phrased it.'

  'But you could make a guess?' Dawlish persisted.

  'I could not, sir. My orders were to transmit certain questions to you. Then I take the answers back to my superiors.'

  'What unit are you attached to, Lieutenant? You are just a lieutenant? Or maybe that covers a higher rank?'

  'Just a lieutenant, sir. And I'm attached to the engineers. Bridge-building. That sort of work.'

  'I see.'

  Dawlish was careful not to show it but he was impressed. Security was as tight as a closed hatch.

  'The next consignment will be delivered within roughly three weeks from now. That answers your question?'

  'It does. Thank you, sir.'

  'Relax, man.' Dawlish became amiable. 'You're not on duty. Pour yourself a drink. You press the button in that bookcase - next to the volume of Pilgrim's Progress.'

  'I never drink when on duty, sir.'

  'Then bloody well pour me one. A large Scotch.'

  Dawlish turned at the Frenchman's pedantic adherence to duty. He had never been able to break down the cold mask Berthier habitually displayed. Give him an order and he'd do anything. Dawlish found it disconcerting that he couldn't penetrate the armour Berthier seemed to surround himself with. Frightened of few men, Dawlish had always found Berthier's presence unsettling. He took the glass of Scotch without a word, drank half the contents.

  'There is another question I was asked to transmit.' Berthier continued. 'Where will the consignment be landed?'

  'Arcachon...'

  Dawlish nearly added, 'as on previous occasions,' but stopped himself just in time. Possibly Berthier did know as little about the operation as appeared to be the case.

  'And a signal confirming the exact arrival date and time will be sent by the usual route twenty-four hours earlier?'

  'Yes.'

  Dawlish left it at that. Again he studied Berthier. Six feet tall, strong face, good build, large hands hanging close to his sides. Almost as though standing to attention. On parade. The eyes were blue and ice-cold. The prototype of a well-trained machine.

  'You're leaving when?' Dawlish demanded.

  'I have been ordered to stay for a short time to explore for certain information. I am staying locally.'

  Dawlish would like to have asked where 'locally' was but doubted whether he'd be told. Rather than risk a rebuff from a man whose reactions he was unsure of, Dawlish simply nodded. He drank the rest of his Scotch, stood up.

  'Walters will show you out...'

  He paced the room when Berthier had gone. People left an atmosphere behind them when they had intruded and gone. Dawlish felt that Death had just paid a visit to Grenville Grange.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Still furious with the way Dawlish had tried to paw her, Paula was very glad to see the man walking down the steps of the Brudenell as she left her parked car. Victor Rosewater, clad in a British warm, came forward to greet her, gave her a strong bear hug.

  'You look strained.' he commented. 'Had a bad experience?'

  'Actually, it was a trifle unpleasant...'

  She was surprised and pleased at how perceptive he was. And he made no attempt to question her at that moment -instead he said just the right thing.

  'I was on my way for a walk through Aldeburgh. That can wait. I suspect you could do with a drink. I'll wait in the bar while you divest yourself of your coat...'

  In her room, Paula took a couple of minutes to check her make-up. She chose her favourite brooch to pin to the lapel of her suit, combed, brushed her raven-black hair and sprayed it.

  'Champers?' Rosewater suggested when she perched by the counter.

  'Lovely. I need it.'

  'Let's go sit in a quiet corner.' Rosewater suggested as he carried two glasses of champagne.

  Again she appreciated his consideration. Intuitively he had guessed she might want to talk where no one could overhear them. As she faced him she looked at his gear. A smart small-check sports jacket, corduroy trousers to ward off the cold outside, a cream shirt and a pale blue tie. He looked very fit. He raised his glass.

  'Cheers! Do you want to talk about your experience or shall we avoid the subject?'

  'I'd like to get it out of my system.' She felt a little odd getting on such warm terms with the man who had been Karin's husband. But Rosewater was not only good-looking: more important, he had an easy manner with women. He sat patient and attentive as Paula went on.

  'I do a bit of journalism on the side,' she said, shading the truth. I've just come back from interviewing Lord Dane Dawlish for Woman's Eye. It turned out to be an ordeal. He couldn't keep his hands off me.'

  'Nothing serious - really serious - happened?' he asked quietly.

  'No. I fended him off. I should have scratched his face.'

  'Probably just as well you didn't. Dawlish has a reputation for playing rough with women who don't accommodate him.'

  'How do you know that?' she asked curious.

  'It's part of my job to know all about the main players in the international game.'

  'Game, Victor?'

  'Wrong word. British understatement. It's anything but a game - a deadly struggle for power, for money. You don't become a Lord Dane Dawlish abiding by the Queensberry Rules.'

  'My research showed up that Dawlish is heavily involved in the armaments trade.'

  'You mentioned that to him?' Rosewa
ter asked casually.

  'Yes I did. And he got very uptight.'

  'Probably because he's running down that side of his business. End of the Cold War, and all that. He's still got plenty of other golden eggs in his basket.'

  'Like his underwater exploration of the sunken village up at Dunwich?' Paula suggested.

  Rosewater sipped at his champagne, took his time over reacting to her sudden change of subject. He put down his glass, fingered the stem. Then he shook his head and smiled as he looked at her, his eyes moving up from her slim waist to her eyes.

  'He's losing money on that, I'm sure. It helps his image as a man mad keen on conservation. Who knows, perhaps he is just that. Must make a change from business and the wheeling and dealing he's devoted his career to.'

  'I suppose you're right.' Paula checked her watch. 'After a quick lunch I have to get back to town. Are you staying on - still trying to find out who murdered poor Karin?'

  'I'll be corning to London myself in a few days. Tell Tweed he can get me at Brown's Hotel if he needs me. Prior to that, here at the Brudenell. Now, before you go and leave me all alone maybe we could have a quick lunch together.'