by Colin Forbes
'There's a very good pub up the High Street called the Cross Keys.'
'Let's eat here. I need something substantial to keep me going. Must be the cold weather ...'
As he escorted her to the dining room Paula had the odd feeling Rosewater had given her a clue. She was damned if she could recall at the moment what it had been.
Newman and Marler had a ploughman's lunch at the Cross Keys when they drove back from the forest where the chopper had attacked them. Butler and Nield followed them in, took another table as though they were on their own. Their normal procedure when they were guarding someone.
'We have company.' Newman whispered after he'd ordered. 'Large table on our right. Five of them. The ugly-looking customer who seems to be the boss is Brand. I heard Dawlish call him that after he left us.'
'Oh, I've made the acquaintance of Mr Brand already,' Marler replied, talking in a normal tone. 'He's the chappie who bet me I couldn't shoot clay pigeons out of the sky.'
The burly man who sat with his back to them, his shaggy hair touching his collar, turned slowly round, his chair scraping the floor. Under thick eyebrows he stared at Marler and grinned unpleasantly.
'And took five hundred nicker off you, you lousy shot.'
'Didn't quite score a hundred per cent, did I?' Marler agreed, quite unruffled by Brand's aggressive manner.
'A hundred per cent?' Brand swept a large hand to draw his four rough-looking companions into the argument. 'This ponce couldn't hit a barn door from six feet away.'
Newman caught on to the situation. Marler had first encountered this tribe of thugs at the Cross Keys. They had undoubtedly heard of the fiasco with the chopper, had come here on the off-chance they'd see Marler again. They wanted revenge. Time to intervene.
'One thing, Brand, I could hit you from a distance of six feet, which is about the distance between us now.'
'Is that so, creep?'
Brand shoved his chair back, stood up slowly. There was movement among his companions who started to get out of their chairs. Butler stood up, hoisted the rubber cosh he kept in a special pocket in his raincoat. Walking to the table, he tapped one thug on the shoulder with the cosh.
'Anyone here who wants his skull cracked? All he has to do is try and stand up. Better stay sat down, gentlemen.
Leave it between the two of them. Fair's fair. Don't you agree?'
There was something menacing in the way Butler stood, six feet tall, well built, slapping the cosh into the palm of his left hand. He was smiling as he kept looking round the table. Movement ceased. Brand edged towards Newman.
Newman remained seated, elbows on the table, hands clasped under his chin. Brand's right hand whipped forward, grabbed his plate of half-eaten food, tipped it on to the floor. He grinned unpleasantly again.
'Now you'll have to eat off the floor. Expect you're used to it. Most dogs are.'
'That remark is a trifle provocative,' Marler commented.
Brand's right hand clenched, he aimed a piledriver blow at Newman's jaw. There was a blur of movement. Newman was standing, his chair thrown back on the floor. Brand's fist had missed its target. Newman's stiffened left hand hammered down on the bridge of Brand's prominent nose. He staggered back, eyes filled with tears of pain.
Newman followed him, slammed his right fist into the exposed jaw. Brand hurtled backwards, hit the counter, collapsed in a heap below it, motionless. The man sitting to the right of Brand's empty chair started to get up. Newman's hand pressed his shoulder, forced him back into his seat.
'If you want trouble you can have it. But I'm ex-SAS. I'll try not to kill you, but accidents happen...'
Which was true, Marler thought. Newman had survived an SAS course when writing an article on the unit. The thug subsided, muttered something but remained seated. At the far side of Brand's table another man started to get up. Nield shoved him down, hauled the chair from under him. As the thug toppled backwards Butler's right forearm struck him in the face, increasing the momentum. The back of the man's head hit the floor and he lay still. Nield checked his neck pulse.
'Still breathing. He may have a headache when he wakes up...'
A waitress came rushing out, horrified. Newman took a banknote from his wallet, handed it to her.
'As you saw, they started it. Here's something to cover any damage. Sorry about the food on the floor. A decent tip out of that should make you feel a bit better.'
'Thank you.' the waitress said, glancing at the size of the banknote. 'They're regular. I'd never have believed it.'
'I should ban them in future.' Newman advised. 'Their table manners leave something to be desired ...'
Accompanied by Marler, he walked out of the rear door across a small garden to where they had parked his car. Beyond the promenade a nor'easter was blowing up. The grey sea heaved and rolled with huge waves working themselves up into turbulence. Butler and Nield had melted out of sight through the front door.
Newman pulled up the collar of his trenchcoat, stared along the deserted front. Aldeburgh was strange and quaint. To his right old houses joined together lined the front, rooftops stepping up and down. At the crest of the shingle beach were several winches - used to haul in the few fishing boats which still operated out of Aldeburgh. No harbour.
'You chose the Cross Keys hoping for a roughhouse?' Marler suggested.
'Not really.' Newman replied as they settled themselves in the front of the Mercedes. 'But I was curious to see whether Brand and his henchmen did turn up - since you'd told me that was where you first met the ugly ape.'
'They did turn up.'
'Which is significant. Dawlish has just made his second blunder. First, when he sent the chopper to attack us in the forest. Second when he sent them to beat the hell out of us back there - to discourage us from coming back.'
'I think I can guess the significance.'
'The fact that we were seen outside that armaments factory hidden away in the forest. Something secret and weird is going on there. Dawlish has shown his hand.'
'So I check out the place again - at closer quarters - on another occasion.'
'We check out the place later.' Newman was driving away from the front, turning into the High Street, heading out of town. 'Right now we're returning to London.'
'I prefer operating on my own.' Marler insisted.
'We'll let Tweed decide. The next priority is to talk to him, report in detail what has happened. He might fit some of it into other data he's keeping inside that brainbox head. And don't forget the fox we have in the boot. It won't last for ever and I want an expert analysis of what killed it...'
Isabelle Thomas was thinking of Newman as she drove her Deux Chevaux through Bordeaux in the early afternoon of the same day. She slowed down as she approached the apartment of her mother, looking everywhere at all the parked cars. She was looking for a vehicle with a man - or men - sitting in it.
Now she had disobeyed Newman's firm warning to keep out of Bordeaux she kept seeing the Englishman in her mind. She thought he'd be furious at what would seem a trivial reason for taking this risk. But she'd remembered the brooch she had left behind in the apartment, the precious brooch given to her by Joseph, her dead fiance.
Poor Joseph. He had committed suicide, jumping into the river Gironde with weights attached to his ankles, and all because he thought he was deformed, a cripple with horribly stretched thumbs after hanging in de Forge's punishment well.
I'd like to kill de Forge, she thought. Slowly ... agonizingly.
She knew Joseph had saved up about half a year's pay to buy her that brooch. Her only memory of the man she had expected to spend the rest of her life with. Taking one last look round, she swung into the alley and parked her car out of sight round the corner at the end in the small yard. Just as Bob Newman had done. He'd give her hell if he knew about her trip back into the city.
She unlocked the back door, slipped quietly inside, shut and locked it. The building seemed horribly quiet as she slipped up the stai
rs, paused outside the apartment door. Before inserting the key she pressed her ear to the solid panel, listening. Could they be waiting for her inside?
Taking out a pencil flash from her handbag, she shielded it with the palm of her other hand, switched it on and examined the lock. No sign that anyone had tampered with the lock. I'm paranoid, she thought. Inserting the key she opened the well-oiled door silently, closed it with care, slipped on the security chain. Now she was safe.
To ease the tension she leaned against the door, pushed her mane of titian hair back over the knee-length green coat she was wearing against the bitter cold. The apartment felt like a morgue. Not a happy analogy, she told herself. Show some guts.
Without switching on any lights she moved across the gloomy room to the tall windows overlooking the street one floor down. Mid-afternoon and it was almost dark outside. The sky was a sheet of lead pressing down on the shabby city. Bloody November.
Isabelle studied the street. She watched the doorway where the two DST men had hidden when she had last been here with Newman. No sign of anyone. The temperature outside was close to freezing. A woman shopper hurried along the street, stoop-shouldered, huddled against the cold, carrying two plastic bags. No one else. Yes, she had got away with it.
She walked back across the living room to her bedroom, switched on the light after drawing the curtains. It took her only a minute to burrow under a drawer of her underclothes, to find the precious brooch. Wrapping it in a slip, she noticed the door to the living room was ajar a foot, so the light would be shining through into the uncurtained living room. Pushing the brooch inside her coat pocket, she ran across the room, closed the door, switched off the light.
She stood with her back leant against it, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Really she should have brought some kind of weapon to defend herself. She waited a little longer, opened the door and made her way into the bathroom. Taking a canister of hair spray off the glass ledge, she removed the cap, slipped it into her pocket, glad she was leaving. In her ears rang Newman's warning.
She was approaching the door out of the apartment when someone knocked on the door. She froze. Her mother had nothing to do with the neighbours, didn't speak to anyone else in the building. The knocking was repeated more vigorously, urgently. She stiffened herself, took a deep breath.
'Who is it?' she called out.
'Plumber. One of your radiators is leaking, flooding the apartment below.'
'Not from this one,' she called back, giving herself time to think.
'Oh yes, it is,' the voice insisted. 'A plumber can trace the source of a leak. It's in your apartment. Water is pouring down the walls below.'
It had happened once before, a long time ago. When she was a little girl. She remembered watching the plumber working. And she couldn't go round to check. That would mean switching on all the lights. Which would be a give away to anyone watching the apartment from outside.
She inserted the key very quietly, turning the lock. She hesitated before removing the chain, then decided to get it over with. She stood back a short distance from the door, the flashlight in her left hand, forced herself to call out.
'The door's unlocked ...'
It opened slowly until it was wide open. She switched on her flashlight. Two men in trench coats stood framed in the doorway. The two DST men who had taken Henri away from the Bar Miami. The two fake DST men - as Newman had warned her - who had been involved in Henri's murder at the Gare St Jean. She went ice-cold with hate. The taller man held up a hand to shield his eyes from the flashlight and grinned.
'We thought you'd be back. You're coming with us. We are DST
She aimed the spray she was holding in her right hand, pressed the button, moved it in a swift arc, spraying both of them in the eyes. The taller one swore foully, clawed at his eyes. Isabelle lowered her head, jumped forward, butted him in the chest with all her strength. He staggered backwards as she kept on charging him like a bull. His back broke the banister rail. The impetus of her enraged charge toppled him over. He screamed as he fell down the drop two floors to the concrete basement.
Isabelle swung round. The other smaller man still had his hands over his eyes. She grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled his head forward. Instinctively he jerked backwards a fraction, which was what she was expecting. She changed her tactics, pushed with all her force, smashing his skull against the hard edge of the door frame. The sound of bone meeting wood was loud. He slumped to the floor. She thrust the canister and her flashlight into her pockets, stood, took hold of his inert heels, dragged him to the gap in the banister, heaved his legs over the edge, levered his body after them. He made no sound as he followed his companion. She heard a distant thud.
Locking the door, she left the building by the rear staircase. Settling herself behind the wheel of her car, she sucked in deep breaths. She must drive normally. Near the Gare St Jean she saw an empty parking slot, a public phone booth near by. She drove into the slot, locked the car, walked quickly to the booth. Inside she used her flashlight to check the number of the Prefecture in Bordeaux. When the police operator answered she spoke forcefully.
'I have to report a very serious crime - attempted murder. It has just taken place. Put me through to the Prefect at once. I will speak to no one else. If you keep me waiting I'll ring off. It concerns the DST...'
In his first-floor office in the old grey stone building with two wings flanking a central courtyard, only a short walk from the Meriadeck Centre Commercial, the Prefect frowned at the mention of the DST, told the operator to put the caller through. Using his foot, he slammed his office door shut.
In the phone booth Isabelle had covered the mouthpiece with the end of her silk scarf to muffle her voice.
'This is the Prefect. Who is calling?'
'Take this address do - immediately ... You've got it? Good. On the staircase you'll find two fake DST men if you send a patrol car now. Now! There was a struggle. On the staircase. Both men are unconscious - and they were involved in the murder of Henri Bayle...'
'Who is this?' the Prefect demanded.
But the phone had gone dead. A short stocky man in a grey business suit, the Prefect had been chosen for his ability to take quick decisions. Fake DST? But the name which really alerted him was Henri Bayle - the man murdered recently at the Gare St Jean.
He locked his office door. Picking up the phone he asked the operator to give him an outside line; And he warned the man that if he listened in he'd be dismissed instantly. Then he dialled the number of Rene Lasalle, Chief of the DST in Paris. He got straight through.
'Prefect of Bordeaux here. We have spoken before, as you'll recall. I've just had an anonymous call about two false DST men at a Bordeaux address. The caller, who I think was a woman - voice blurred - said they were involved in the murder of Henri Bayle ...'
He kept the call brief. Breaking the connection, he picked up the phone again, ordered two patrol cars to the address.
'Urgently. Break into the building if necessary. And the men should be armed with automatic weapons ...'
Isabelle drove at speed through the night along the N650, the same route Newman had driven her on their way to Arcachon. Close to the sea she pulled in by the side of the highway in the middle of open country outside the village of Facture. Across the fields she saw an old barn, half-burnt out, the rafters exposed like human ribs.
Reaction set in. She shuddered uncontrollably as though she had a bad chill. She felt frozen. Nerves. Gradually she regained control, taking deep breaths of the icy air coming in through the window she had opened.
It was only a short distance to Arcachon now. She would stay there from now on. And in the morning she would call Bob Newman and tell him what had happened. Maybe it was important.
Chapter Nineteen
The following day at Park Crescent Tweed spent a lot of time listening to verbal reports of what had happened at Aldeburgh, later questioning all the people assembled in his crowded offic
e closely.
Crowded into the room were Paula, Newman, Marler, Butler, and Nield. Monica occupied her desk, quietly taking notes. They had just finished their reports when Newman spoke again.
'I've just remembered something I'd completely forgotten to tell you. It concerns Isabelle...'
'The beautiful titian-haired Isabelle,' Paula teased him.
'I merely described her,' Newman rapped back, irked.
'It was the way you described her.' Paula purred.
'I'd now like to say something important without interruption. It was your description, Paula, of Lord Dawlish's catamaran, Steel Vulture. A while ago, when you told us about your grim experience when Karin Rosewater was killed, you said when you both surfaced off Dunwich there was a strange ship, its prow cut in two...'
'That's right.' Paula leaned forward, serious again.
'Well, when I was walking along the Arcachon front with Isabelle she described a strange vessel which sails in there -a ship "with its prow cut in two". Something very close to that. It sounds exactly like the Steel Vulture.'
'That is interesting,' Tweed interjected. 'Maybe now we have a link between Suffolk and France.'
'And.' Newman went on, 'she also told me a Lord Dane Dawlish turned up at some party and made a heavy pass at her, which she rebuffed.'
'That's dear Dawlish,' Paula commented. 'And surely we now have another connection between Aldeburgh and France?'
