by Colin Forbes
Newman walked rapidly back to where Howard was escorting the last three staff members into a taxi. Monica was still standing on the pavement.
'I'm going to call Tweed from a phone box in Baker Street Station,' Newman said, hardly pausing.
'I'll come with you,' Howard decided.
'Me too,' Monica said. There's something Tweed should know. We might just have a link.'
'Tweed here, Bob,' the familiar voice responded when Newman had dialled Tresillian Manor.
Tweed listened in silence as Newman reported concisely the events leading up to the catastrophe. Monica was squeezed into the box with him. Howard stood outside, erect, hands clasped behind his back, looking none too pleased at being excluded.
'Any casualties?' Tweed asked at one stage, expressed relief at the news. He listened as Newman told him about the visit of Joel Dyson two days earlier. Newman then handed the phone to Monica who explained that no one had seen the film or listened to the tape and that both had been still in the safe when the building was wrecked. Tweed asked to speak to Newman again.
'Bob, I'm speaking from Cornwall, as you know, so I'm phrasing this carefully. The phone doesn't appear to be bugged, but still. Now! Do you remember – no names – a place down here we once stayed at overnight?'
'Yes.'
'Drive down to the same place as soon as you can. Make sure you're not followed.'
'For Pete's sake, I'd know.'
'Make sure! Now put Howard on the line. Tell him I am short of time.'
'Wherever you are I want you back in London quickly…' Howard began.
'No! Now listen to me and don't argue. You'll need a fresh base
'There's that concrete horror down at Waterloo…'
Howard was referring to what the public thought was the new HQ of the SIS. Pictures had appeared of it in the press but it was purely for low-level admin.
'I said listen to me!' Tweed snapped. 'I suspect we're up against the most powerful network in the world – and don't ask me to identify them yet. That network is Out to exterminate all of us. I'm not sure why yet. You've got to go underground. Move the whole of our staffand yourself-to the training mansion at Send in Surrey. It's surrounded with large grounds and is well guarded. That is if you value your life. And I'll only phone you at Send.'
'I don't like running…'
'We're all running from now on, Howard. Running to survive. Think of the lives of your staff.'
'All right. Send it is. A bit of peace and quiet might be quite a change. What are you going to do?'
'Go underground.'
4
'Lord, it's marvellous to be outside in this fresh air,' Paula said as she walked with Tweed, climbing up the moor.
Below them Tresillian Manor was a miniature house huddled in its bowl. Butler walked a few paces behind. He had insisted on accompanying them for their protection.
Tweed had earlier phoned the police after talking to Cook, who had recovered quickly. She had not been optimistic about an early arrival.
'No good phoning Padstow. The police station's just a cabin and most of the time no one is there. In the phone book they advise phoning Launceston but I think your best bet is Exeter. That's a real headquarters.'
Tweed had phoned Exeter. He had sensed the inspector's shock at the other end when he'd given details of the massacre waiting for him.
'Never 'ad anything like that. Might be best if I called Lunnon.'
'Just so long as someone gets here fast,' Tweed had snapped and put down the phone.
The ground was hard, ribbed with rocks, covered here and there with gorse. As they climbed higher Paula pointed to a rocky eminence rearing up in the distance from the shallow bleak moor surrounding its base.
That's High Tor. I once climbed-' She broke off. 'I wonder who that is? There's a man on a horse at the summit of the tor.'
Tweed looked up. Too far away even to guess at what he looked like, the horseman remained stationary for a brief interval and Tweed had the impression he was studying them through field-glasses. Then he was gone.
'Saw you, mate,' Butler said with unconcealed satisfaction.
Tweed and Paula swung round. Butler was holding a small slim monocular glass, another sophisticated device created in the basement at Park Crescent. It operated like a high-powered telescope.
'A big chap,' Butler continued. 'Wearing a deerstalker hat. That's all I observed before he vanished.'
'You really are a wizard,' Paula commented. 'The equipment concealed among your clothes.'
She turned round, started walking, stopped and grabbed Tweed by the arm.
'Up there, midway down High Tor. I saw the sunlight flash off something. More binoculars.'
'That horseman again,' Tweed suggested.
'No, it's someone else. Look at the bottom of the tor.'
On the level, a long way below the summit, a horseman was riding off at a furious gallop. Tweed frowned as Butler came alongside them, Walther in his right hand.
'This is sinister,' Tweed said. 'We have the massacre at the manor, which I'm convinced was supposed to include us. The killer was probably instructed to wipe out the whole lunch party without knowing his targets -with the exception of Julius Amberg. And now we are under surveillance. Then there was the Park Crescent bomb.'
'I can't see any one outfit – however large and well organized – synchronizing both atrocities so close together. Not one in London and the other in Cornwall. Amberg only phoned you this morning,' Paula reminded him.
'Except that is what appears to have happened,' Tweed rejoined.
'A motorcade is approaching the manor,' Butler warned.
They all turned round and looked down on the distant road snaking over the moor towards the entrance. Three police cars and one private car leading the procession.
'Better get back,' Tweed said. He looked at Paula. 'How are you feeling now?'
Tons better.' She patted her stomach. 'All's well. That dried toast Cook made me was just what I needed.
'That's a terrible thing which happened at Park Crescent,' she went on as they hurried back down the sandy track. 'At least no one was injured or killed. I don't understand what's going on.'
'A wholesale and frighteningly professional attempt to wipe us all out. And I have only two clues as to who is behind this extermination campaign.'
'Which are?' Paula asked, not expecting Tweed to tell her.
The fact that so few people know the location of our HQ, that so few knew we were due to arrive at Tresillian Manor. Those go together. The other clue is Joel Dyson…'
He stopped speaking as they neared the entrance and out of the front of the private car, a Volvo station wagon, a tall, lean and lanky figure stepped. The last man on earth Tweed wanted to meet at this juncture.
'No one mentions the Park Crescent outrage,' he warned. 'Not unless someone else mentions it first. We don't know about it.'
'What's the matter?' Paula enquired.
'Don't you recognize him? That's our old friend and my sparring partner, Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan of the Yard.'
***
Tweed. Miss Grey.' Buchanan was formal in his greeting. As though we were mere acquaintances, Paula thought. 'And who, may I ask, is this?' Buchanan demanded.
'You just did,' Tweed told him in a neutral tone. 'Harry Butler, one of my staff. There are two more inside. Pete Nield and Philip Cardon – guarding the place and looking after the staff of four, who are in a state of shock. It's a blood bath,' he warned.
'Which is why I flew down here in a helicopter. At the request of the Commissioner.'
What's going on? Tweed wondered. The Commissioner of Police. As high up as you could go. Why? Buchanan was a calm and highly efficient detective. Detached in manner, his thick brown hair was neatly trimmed, as was his moustache. His grey eyes were alert and shrewd. He took charge immediately.
'Let's walk up the drive, give me a chance to get an idea of the surroundings. What were you doing out on the moor?'
He asked suddenly as they neared the manor, followed by the cars. A typical thrusting question aimed at catching off guard Buchanan's target.
'We went for a walk to get the atmosphere of what's inside there out of our minds,' Paula replied.
'I was addressing Tweed.'
'Same answer,'Tweed said.
'I gather from what you told Exeter,' Buchanan continued, 'this Swiss banker, Julius Amberg, invited you down to lunch and you arrived late. I spoke to Exeter myself before boarding the helicopter at Battersea.'
'You gathered correctly,' Tweed replied.
'Look, Tweed, I understand there are eight bodies inside the mansion, shot to death…'
'Seven. The butler was stabbed.'
'A detail. You're answering questions like a suspect…'
'A detail!' Paula burst out. 'It wasn't a detail to Mounce the butler. It was his life. In his forties, I'd guess.'
Tweed smiled to himself. Paula had vented her indignation to give him time to cope with Buchanan.
'Possibly not the best way of phrasing it,' Buchanan agreed. 'But this is a murder investigation.'
'Why has the Commissioner intervened?' Tweed snapped, using Buchanan's surprise question tactic against him.
'Well…' Buchanan was thrown off balance. 'First there is the scale of the crime. Then an important foreigner is involved. Amberg was a member of the BIS which meets in Basle. The Bank for International Settlements.'
'We are aware of what the initials stand for,' Paula told him drily.
'Is that your only explanation for this unprecedented intervention of the Commissioner?' Tweed pressed.
'It's the only one you're going to get,' Buchanan snapped.
He paused. Paula guessed he was annoyed at losing his cool. He stood staring at the manor, with its curved Dutch-style gables surmounting the towers at either end. He studied the large window? behind which was located the Great Hall. The grey, mellow stone and the mullion windows showed up at their best in the sunlight.
'It's beautiful,' Buchanan remarked and Tweed recalled that one of his interests was architecture. To think such a tragedy should take place in such an ideal setting. Who owns it?' he asked suddenly. 'Amberg?'
'No. A man called Gaunt. The locals call him Squire Gaunt. He's rented it to Amberg before,' Paula replied.
'How do you know that?' Buchanan demanded.
They were walking again. As they approached the mansion Philip Cardon came out of the front door, waited for them on the terrace.
A small well-built man of thirty, Cardon was the most recent recruit to join the SIS. Clean-shaven, he had an amiable expression, An expert linguist, he had penetrated the inner fastnesses of China, speaking Cantonese and passing for a native.
'That's Philip Cardon,' Tweed remarked.
'I asked you how you knew this Squire Gaunt owns this little jewel,' Buchanan persisted.
'Because Julius Amberg told me,' Paula replied. That was just before lunch was served, the lunch the poor devils never got a chance to sample.'
'Wait a minute.' Buchanan paused at the foot of the steps leading up to the terrace. 'You were here before this massacre took place? I understood you all turned up later.'
'You understood wrong,' she rapped back. 'And can we go inside before I explain? It's cold out here.'
'Yes. And you've got a lot of explaining to do,' Buchanan informed her grimly.
An hour later Buchanan had taken separate statements from Paula and then Tweed. Scene of the Crime teams were still swarming over the manor, mainly in the dining-room. A doctor who had arrived with them had officially pronounced that all eight corpses were corpses. Photographers and fingerprint men were still busy with their different tasks.
Cook had supplied umpteen cups of tea, secretly grumbling to Tweed at the amount of sugar they put in a cup.
'It's bad for them. Don't they know anything?'
'Only their own jobs,' Tweed had replied wearily.
Buchanan's interrogations had been intensive. At the end he felt sure Tweed and Paula were concealing information but he realized he'd never break them. On each he sprang his bad news near the end of the interrogation.
'Miss Grey, something strange is going on.'
'It most certainly is.'
'I have grim tidings from London. Your headquarters at
Park Crescent has been totally destroyed by the most massive bomb. Not a stone left standing.'
He waited. She saw the trap and nodded her head. Crossing her shapely legs she responded.
'Isn't it dreadful?'
'I'd have expected you to ask whether there were serious casualties.'
'Oh, we know all about it – and no one was even injured, thank heavens. Bob Newman happened to be talking to Monica in Tweed's office. They noticed the Espace parked outside and evacuated the building just in time.'
'And how do you come to know that?' Buchanan asked in his most persuasive tone.
'Because Bob – Newman – phoned the news to us.'
'He knew you were down here, then?'
'Only because Monica told him. She had the phone number of Tresillian Manor and Bob phoned in the hope we were still here.'
'You do realize,' Buchanan said, bearing down on her, 'that the only explanation of the two outrages – the massacre here which might have included you as victims and the bomb outrage at Park Crescent – suggests someone is trying to exterminate the SIS? Now who would want to do that?'
'I wish to God we knew,' she said fervently. 'No idea.'
'I see.' He sounded as though he didn't believe her. 'And you were the only one who saw the mass murderer. The fake postman. If only you'd seen his face.'
'He was too far away. I knew – I thought – it was a postman because of his blue uniform ribbed with red. And the sun flashed off his badge, as I told you. Plus the satchel perched on his front carrier.'
'Which undoubtedly hid the machine-pistol he used. I find it difficult to believe that when you were inside the toilet you didn't hear the shots.'
'It's a heavy door. The door into the dining-room is also heavy, assuming he closed it.'
'Can we try an experiment…?'
Buchanan escorted her out of the study, gave instructions to one of his detectives armed with an automatic, warned everyone what was going to happen. He then accompanied Paula to the large toilet and closed the door. Mischievously, Paula sat on the closed oak lid of the toilet.
'Let's do it properly.'
She had omitted to tell him she had been sick and had the satisfaction of seeing Buchanan look embarrassed for the first time. They waited. After a short interval someone tapped on the outside of the door which Buchanan opened.
'What is it. Selsdon?'
'I've just done it, sir. Fired six shots out of the dining-room window – with the door into the hall open.'
'Thank you. Go and do something useful.'
'I never heard a thing,' Paula said as they re-entered the hall.
'I must admit neither did I…'
Buchanan's interview – even longer – with Tweed produced no fresh information, which Buchanan found frustrating. He said as much to Tweed.
'I find this unconvincing and unsatisfactory.'
'The first is your suspicious mind, the second I agree with completely. I've answered all your questions.'
Which was true. But Tweed had omitted certain data.
No reference to Joel Dyson's visit to Park Crescent.
No reference to a film.
No reference to a tape, stored in the safe with the film, a safe now buried under tons of rubble. In the study, alone with Tweed, Buchanan stood leaning against a table, jangling loose change in his trouser pocket.
'I may want to talk to you again.' His manner was casual and Tweed, knowing Buchanan's ploy of throwing a witness off balance at the end of an interview, braced himself for the unexpected. 'Incidentally,' Buchanan continued, 'the whole country knows you're down here.'
'How could they possibly know that?' Tweed ask
ed quietly.
'Your presence here has been linked with the massacre. In a stop-press item in a London evening paper. Reported also on the radio and in a TV newsflash. You were named-Deputy Director Tweed of the SIS, et cetera.'
'I still don't understand,' Tweed persisted.
'Neither did I, so just before flying down here I phoned the paper, the BBC and ITV news editors. They all told me the same thing. An anonymous caller contacted all three, told them to check with the Exeter police. Reporting the massacre all the media were careful to use the phrase it is strongly rumoured that eight people have been shot to death at Tresillian Manor, et cetera. Then your rumoured presence was reported.'
'I find this extremely sinister. Only the killer could have had that information. But why broadcast the crime?'
'You tell me,' Buchanan said, again sounding frustrated. 'You're going back to London?' he went on. 'Where will you operate from now?'
'You can try my flat in Walpole Street. It's up to Howard to answer the second question.'
That's it, then. A fleet of ambulances has arrived to take away the bodies. The dead guests' cars have been driven away for examination. Any idea where I can contact this chap Gaunt?'
'None at all,' Tweed replied as they went into the hall.
Two white-coated men were carrying out a covered body on a stretcher towards the front door. The man at the rear called out over his shoulder.
This is the last one from the abattoir back there.'
The forensic team seems to have finished the job,'
Buchanan remarked. 'I understand they've gone, so I think I'll be gone too. I'll be up half the night when I get back. What about you?'
'We'll try and persuade that nice cook to make us some tea. Sustenance to fuel us for our trip away from here.'
'As you wish.'
Paula came out of the Great Hall at that moment. Buchanan looked at both of them, didn't make any effort to shake hands and walked out.
'I don't think he likes us much,' Paula observed.
They went to the door and watched Buchanan driving off followed by the last patrol car. Tweed put an arm round her shoulders and briefly told her what Buchanan had just told him. Paula was stunned.
