by Colin Forbes
Jean Burgoyne came rushing out of the entrance to Admiralty House. She stopped, gazing up and down the deserted road.
'Over here.' Paula called out feebly.
She was clambering to her feet, staggering, when Jean had reached her. She flicked at her coat with her hands to brush off rubbish.
'My best coat - suede ...'
A sudden gust of wind funnelled down the road, nearly blew her off her feet again. Jean grabbed her by the arm, led her back slowly to the drive, along it, into the house. Only then did Paula see she was carrying a large revolver.
'My uncle's service revolver,' Jean said, seeing her looking at the weapon. 'What on earth happened out there? Are you all right? Would you like a drink? More champagne, coffee, tea? Something with brandy in it?'
'Nothing. Really. Thank you...'
She took off her coat, examined it, standing in the living room. She decided it had survived without serious damage.
'It will have to go to the cleaners.' She felt dazed. 'Did you fire that revolver?'
'You bet I did. Into the air. I heard you screaming -sounded like a banshee going full throttle. Feel like telling me what happened?'
Paula did so, tersely, pausing to give her throat a rest, to drink some lime juice. She was careful to give an edited version, pretending she'd been subjected to an attempted sexual assault.
When she'd finished she agreed that Jean should drive her back to the Brudenell, but first she insisted on a brief search outside with a flashlight Jean produced for the paper bag which had been thrust over her head. It might be important evidence.
They searched fruitlessly along the verge, in the road, for five minutes, and then Jean insisted that they got into her car and drove straight back to the hotel. Paula was still holding up well, worried she might say too much to Jean. She was also worried about Newman. When he had heard what happened he would give her hell.
They arrived outside and as she stepped out of the car Paula checked the other vehicles. Berthier's Saab was parked next to Newman's Mercedes. What the devil was the Merc doing here? Jean accompanied her inside and they ran into Newman pacing up and down the lobby.
Jean introduced herself, not realizing it was unnecessary - Newman recognized her immediately from the photo Lasalle had sent by courier to Park Crescent. Paula thanked Jean effusively, said she wouldn't forget her invitation if she ever found herself in Bordeaux. Something made her call out as Jean was leaving.
'And, please, be very careful to take care of yourself. It's a dangerous world we're living in...' 'As you have good reason to know. Bye.'
'Tweed is here,' Newman told her as they rode up alone in the elevator. 'We'll go to his room, if that's all right. You look all shook up. White as a sheet. Has something happened?' 'Better tell you while Tweed can listen too...' Settled in an armchair in Tweed's room, sipping frequently at a cup of the sweetened tea she'd asked for, she told them about her experience. Tweed sat in another armchair, close to her, leaning forward, hands clasped.
He was in two minds whether to let her go on as she had insisted on doing. Her request for sweetened tea, when normally she never touched sugar, suggested to him she was in a state of shock. He'd voiced the suspicion but she had denied it. Tweed was still wondering whether he ought to pack her off to bed. On the other hand, if she was up to describing what had happened now she was more likely to recall small details, any of which might be important.
Paula had the thirst of the devil. She paused again to sip the tea. The truth was she was in shock, but concealing it by asserting her strong willpower. As she went on speaking she kept herself under control by moving two fingers slowly up and down the shoulder strap of her bag. She had come to the point when Jean said she would drive her back and they got into her car. Newman spoke for the first time. 'Didn't anyone think of calling the police?' 'Oh, yes. Jean was very determined to do just that but I dissuaded her.' She looked at Tweed. 'You've had enough trouble with Buchanan and I suspected it would get back to him. He might have asked awkward questions you don't want raised at this moment.'
'You could be right.' Tweed agreed. 'Good thinking.'
'I don't agree!' Newman burst out. 'If they'd put out an all-points bulletin they might have stopped the car.'
'What car?' Paula asked him. 'All I saw were two red tail-lights disappearing. No idea of the make - even of the size of the car.'
'They might have set up roadblocks.' Newman persisted.
'Probably no point.' Tweed objected. 'Supposing the man who attacked Paula is staying in Aldeburgh? Which I suspect is likely. His car will be parked in a garage.'
'And that occurred to me.' Paula agreed. 'I studied a map of the town - the road where Jean Burgoyne's uncle lives is a kind of horseshoe. He could have driven back into the High Street from the opposite direction to the way Berthier brought me. He might have his car parked outside this hotel. I did notice Berthier's Saab was parked back in the same slot we took it from.'
'Did you feel the radiator to see if the engine was still warm?' Newman asked.
'Oddly enough.' she flared up, 'I didn't think of it. After you've just escaped being strangled it's easy to forget something.
'In any case.' Tweed pointed out, 'on a night like this an engine would cool quickly.' He looked at Paula. 'You have slight bruising on your neck ...'
'Which I noticed in the mirror when I slipped into my own room for a wash before Bob brought me along here.' She felt her throat. 'It's very slight - probably my scarf saved me a worse bruising.'
'I was going to say.' Tweed continued, 'maybe we ought to get a doctor to examine it.'
'No doctor.' Paula said as she stood up, stifling a yawn. 'If you don't mind I think I'd like to get some sleep. I was going to have a bath...'
'Don't.' Newman warned. 'You could fall asleep in it.' He grinned. 'Unless you'd like me to come and help you into the bath.'
She smiled gratefully, realizing he was introducing an element of humour to soothe her nerves, shook her head. When she reached the door she paused, her mind racing as she turned to speak to them before leaving.
'I told you every word that was said at Admiralty House. There's something odd about Brigadier Burgoyne. He was spry as a five-year old when I arrived - physically and mentally. When I started talking about Third Corps in France he dried up.'
Tweed leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. 'How do you mean?' he asked quickly.
'Prior to that he had all his marbles. He suddenly went vague on me. I had the distinct feeling he was acting out his old man routine. He even shuffled out of the room. When he entered you'd have thought he wasn't a day over sixty.'
'Interesting,' said Tweed, gazing into the distance.
'And there's something strange about Jean Burgoyne,' Paula went on.
'Strange?' Tweed probed. 'In what way?'
'I don't know. Yet. She invited me to the Villa Forban if I was ever in the Bordeaux area. I think I'd like to go there if ever the opportunity crops up.'
'No point in thinking about that now. Get to bed as soon as you can,' Tweed urged her.
Paula seemed reluctant to go. 'Do you think that the murderer could be a woman?' she asked suddenly.
'Why do you think that?' Tweed, surprised, queried.
'I don't know that either, yet. Sleep well, both of you...'
*
'Kalmar is somewhere here in Aldeburgh.' Tweed said as soon as they were alone. 'I'm convinced of it. I was careful not to say that while Paula was here. She's gone through enough for one day. Kalmar's identity is the key to this whole European riddle - to what is happening in France. In Germany.'
'And there are plenty of candidates for the role of assassin here in Aldeburgh at the moment.' Newman commented. He had been told by Tweed of the conversation with Monica as they had waited for Paula's return. 'Major Lamy, Sergeant Rey, Lieutenant Berthier - and Brand.'
'So your first priority in the morning is to drive Paula back to London in your Merc. That's an order.'
> 'Which I'm happy to carry out...'
'She musn't linger here a moment longer.' Tweed stressed. 'You must remove her from the zone of danger -Aldeburgh.'
'And then, I suppose.' Newman said cynically, 'she'll want to move into a zone of even greater danger when she hears where I'm going. France.'
Chapter Twenty-Six
SECOND LYONS RIOT. FRENCH SITUATION WORSENS.
In his Park Crescent office next day Tweed read the text below the alarming headline. Monica had obtained the copy of the leading Paris newspaper, Le Monde, during his absence.
Over 2,000 casualties... more than 400 killed ... Lyons in a state of chaos ... The President may visit city ... martial law considered...
He skip-read the account in French quickly, glanced at Paula who sat behind her desk. She was looking more normal. A good night's sleep in Aldeburgh before Newman had driven her back had done her a world of good. Earlier, Newman had repaired Tweed's Escort.
'I read it.' she said. 'Could it be General de Forge stepping up the pressure?'
'Someone is.' Tweed replied cautiously. 'I'm flying to Paris later today to consult with Lasalle. He doesn't seem to trust the phone. That's after I've seen Chief Inspector Kuhlmann.'
'Here? He's flying to London?'
'Yes, expected any moment. Monica took the call before I arrived back. Someone else who doesn't trust phones. It worries me - the atmosphere of intrigue at the very top. While in Paris, I'm meeting Pierre Navarre, Minister of the Interior - the only strong man in the government.'
'We've come back from a troubled time in Aldeburgh to an inferno.'
'I suspect the inferno is still to come.' He noted her understatement - 'a troubled time' - which covered a near-successful attempt to strangle her. Paula was very resilient. 'On top of all this.' he told her, 'we have Chief Inspector Buchanan descending on us later. At my request, admittedly, and Victor Rosewater will join us. I must give Buchanan that signet ring and both of us - Rosewater and myself - will have to take a few salvoes from our friend, Buchanan. I expect we'll survive ...'
As he was speaking the phone rang, Monica answered it, said could he wait just a minute. She put her hand over the mouthpiece.
'It's started. Otto Kuhlmann is downstairs.'
'Wheel him up ...'
The German walked in, wearing a dark business suit, an unlit cigar clamped tightly between his teeth. He looked grim but went over to Paula, put his arm round her shoulders, gave her a hug. He stared at the scarf tucked in above her form-fitting powder blue sweater. The scarf had slipped. Kuhlmann's sharp eyes missed nothing.
'Your throat.' he rasped. 'You've been in the wars?'
'You could say that.' Tweed intervened as Paula adjusted the scarf. 'Tell you about it in a minute. Sit down. Welcome to London. Coffee?'
'Please. Black as sin.'
Kulhmann sat in an armchair, shifted his bulk, staring again at Paula. He twiddled his cigar as he watched her.
'Do light your cigar.' Paula urged. 'I like the aroma of a Havana.'
Monica had hurried from the room to make coffee. Kuhlmann lit his cigar, looked at Tweed, waved the cigar towards Paula.
'Her throat.' he persisted.
Tweed gave a terse account of their trip to Aldeburgh, expressed his certainty that Kalmar had been in the area. He gave the German a list of his suspects, told him he'd not reached the stage where the finger pointed at one man.
'Any idea where he comes from, his nationality?' Kuhlmann asked. 'I also have been trying to get a grip on him. All I hear from my contacts is he's from somewhere in the East. That covers quite a lot of territory. Not a hint of his age, his description.'
'The shadow of a shadow,' Tweed remarked. 'Rather curious. Possibly even significant. But that isn't why you flew to see me, Otto.'
He waited while Monica poured a large cup of black, steaming coffee. Kuhlmann thanked her, drank half the cup in one steady stream.
'Siegfried.' he began. 'Rosewater rang me again from somewhere. I didn't ask him from where. He is Military Intelligence. Gave me another address he'd just obtained from an informant. An apartment in Munich. We raided it, found another arms cache. Twelve Kalashnikov rifles, spare mags, six grenades, and two kilos of Semtex.'
Tweed leaned forward. 'And terrorists?'
Kuhlmann waved his hands like a swimmer. 'I think the local police fumbled it. Patrol cars approached with sirens screaming. No terrorists, No one in the apartment. And again, not one single fingerprint. Another woman at work, I'm sure. A man would have missed something.'
'So Siegfried is in place,' Tweed commented.
'Our own informants in the criminal underground say they are - and they know what's going on. Upwards of a hundred trained saboteurs and assassins. Likely targets: leading members of the government, including the Chancellor himself. Apparently they're waiting for a signal from abroad. Then they start to destabilize Germany. What I'm really worried about is the growing campaign in certain parts of the French press against Germany.'
'All of which is orchestrated. Every responsible person knows Germany is the most peace-loving nation on the continent.' Tweed continued. 'Certain elements in France are whipping up anti-German feeling for their own sinister ambitions. To cover up the fact that all they're interested in is seizing power in Paris. The Cercle Noir.'
'The Black Circle.' Kuhlmann waved his cigar. 'And we've heard rumours about them. They're anti-Semitic, anti-American, anti-British. The trouble is we don't know who they are. But they wield a hell of a lot of clout. And if I can't smoke out the Siegfried terrorists before they break loose they'll justify what the yellow Paris press is saying about us.'
'Which is the whole idea, the core of the plan.'
'On top of this the criminal underworld reports they expect huge reinforcements to arrive soon. From where? If it's from the East - like Kalmar - they'll get through.'
'You have any good men at Wiesbaden who speak French?' Tweed asked.
'Yes, why?'
'Send them undercover into Geneva. Spread the word they are trying to contact Kalmar for a big job. Fee - three million marks. No, make that Swiss francs.'
'If you say so...'
'And send more undercover men, German-speaking, into Basle. Same message.'
'You know something?'
Kuhlmann watched Tweed through blue cigar smoke. Then he drank the rest of his coffee and Monica refilled his cup.
'Just do it. What about Stahl, your agent posing as a Frenchman in Bordeaux? Any news?'
Kuhlmann hesitated. 'Hell! You've been frank with me. He's still there. The trouble is you warned me that he shouldn't use his transmitter. His last signal said he had a load of information - that he'd bring it out as soon as he could. A very brief signal. You're operating in France?'
Kuhlmann looked at the ceiling as he asked the question casually.
'On a large scale.'
'That's really why I came. It's difficult for German agents to operate inside France. The Chancellor has put a veto on the idea.'
'Why?'
'As you know, he has a good' relationship with the President of France. If the Paris press could get hold of a story that we have agents inside French territory they'd have a field day.'
'What about Stahl then?'
Kuhlmann looked up at the ceiling again. Paula knew he was working out his answer.
'That's my secret.' Kuhlmann said eventually. 'And if the fact ever came to light, I sent in Stahl before the Chancellor said there was a veto. And now it be difficult for Stahl to get out quickly. That Black Circle may have done just that -put a circle round Bordeaux.'
'They have.' Tweed recalled Newman's evading action when he'd slipped past the watchers at Bordeaux Airport. 'The airport is a trap.' he warned. 'And my guess is they're also watching the rail stations, maybe even have checkpoints outside the city for motorists.
'So Stahl is trapped.'
'We might be able to reach him. No guarantees. So, we are on your side, Otto. All you
can do is to go back, hope, and pray...'
Tweed checked his watch when Kuhlmann had said goodbye, had left for Heathrow. Monica guessed what was on his mind.
'Yes, Victor Rosewater is due very shortly...' She picked up the phone which had started ringing. As she listened her expression changed. 'You mean all three of them have arrived together? That they're here now?'
Her expression was a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. She looked at Tweed.
'I don't think you're going to like this. The idea was Rosewater arrived for a half hour's quiet chat with you before Buchanan grilled him.'
'What's gone wrong?'
They're all waiting downstairs. Rosewater, Buchanan, and his sidekick, Sergeant Warden.'
'Very odd. Oh, now I get it.' He raised his eyebrows at Paula. 'Send them all up, Monica...'
Rosewater entered the room first. Wearing a trenchcoat, hands thrust in his pockets, he looked at Paula, winked. His manner was cool and poised as always. Behind him a wooden-faced Chief Inspector Buchanan followed with Warden, also wooden faced, as always, bringing up the rear.
'Coats off, gentlemen,' Tweed said breezily. He looked at Buchanan. 'And you're half an hour early.'
