by Colin Forbes
'Check the passenger manifests! Have you any idea just how long that would take?'
'I was going on to say I can be precise. Three days ago, I said. Sometime in the evening. By Swissair.'
That's better. I'm not promising anything. I have to use another phone…
'I'll hold on,' Tweed repeated. 'I'm a long way off and it would be difficult to call you back.'
'Hang on, then…'
Paula, who had listened in, looked at Tweed, puzzled. He shook his head so she wouldn't speak. He put more coins in the slot. Corcoran was back within minutes.
'I've got it. A Joel Dyson travelled first class to Zurich three days ago. Aboard Flight SR 805. Departed Heathrow 2350 hours, ETA Zurich 0225 hours, local time.'
'I'm grateful. One more favour. This call was never made. You haven't heard from me – whoever puts pressure on you.'
'You know, I have a terrible memory sometimes. Tweed, are you OK?'
'No bones broken, not a scratch on me. I was born lucky.'
'Just make sure you stay lucky,' Corcoran said in a grave voice.
10
'I don't understand,' Paula said after they had left the phone box. 'Why these enquiries about Joel Dyson?'
'Let's walk about for a few minutes. There are things I should have told you.'
'Bob and Philip will start wondering what's happened to me…'
The words were hardly out of her mouth when Newman came out of the bar, staring round. Paula waved to him, gave a thumbs-up signal. Newman grinned, relieved to find she was with Tweed. He waved to them and went back into the bar.
Paula led Tweed to the brink of the inner harbour. She pointed to the Mayflower III.
'Believe it or not, that belongs to Gaunt. When I mentioned the fact to him in the bar he looked annoyed that I knew, then said he only leased it. I didn't believe him.'
'Interesting. That's a millionaire's vessel.'
'Could Gaunt be a millionaire? He's always talking as though he's at the end of his tether financially.'
'Millionaires often do that. Talk as though they can't afford to spend a penny or a cent. Which gives me an idea I should have thought of. I'll call Monica down at the Surrey mansion and get her to run a check on our Squire Gaunt. Now, Joel Dyson…'
Paula led him across the car park as Tweed told her what Newman had reported over the phone from Baker Street Station after the explosion. He gave her all the details of Dyson's rushed visit to Park Crescent, about the film and the tape he had left.
As they walked over the white metal bridge above the barrier holding back the level of the water inside the inner harbour, she realized it wasn't really a lock gate. More like a mobile dam which could be opened and closed.
'I once met Joel Dyson,' she said when Tweed had completed his explanation. 'Bob took me into a pub in London for a drink and Dyson was there. A small man with pouched lips and shifty eyes which didn't miss a thing. He speaks with a well-educated English accent – Bob said afterwards he is British. But then he can suddenly mimic being an American and you'd really think he was a Yank.'
'Nasty piece of work, from what I hear,' Tweed remarked.
'Why did you think Dyson might have flown to Zurich?'
'Because Newman told me about Dyson taking compromising photos of Julius Amberg with another woman -Julius was married – and the fact that he persuaded Dyson Amberg could one day be a powerful friend. Dyson then handed the pics to Amberg. I imagine Dyson sacrificed a big fee from Der Spiegel or an American tabloid.'
'So?'
'Dyson made a big song-and-dance to Newman and Monica that he was handing them copies of the film and the tape, keeping the originals for himself. What safer place to hide those originals than in a Swiss bank vault? Specially, at Amberg's Zurcher Kredit Bank.'
'Why narrow his flight to Swissair? Other airlines fly to Zurich.'
'Dyson is an experienced globe-trotter. He'd feel safer aboard a Swiss plane. Especially travelling first class. And their security is first rate.'
'You're right. Incidentally, I was studying Jennie Blade. At the manor when we first saw her I guessed her age at twenty-eight. Now I think she's in her mid-thirties – and very experienced. She intrigues me, does our Jennie. Maybe I'd better get back to the bar or they'll think me rude.'
Paula pointed to the coastal path to the cove where the ferry left for Rock at low tide, then they turned back. Just in time to see Gaunt trooping out of the bar, leading the procession with Newman and Cardon behind him and Jennie bringing up the rear.
'Typical,' Paula said. 'Gaunt treats her like a lapdog. Thank Heaven she can bite back.'
Even as she spoke Jennie, taking long strides, caught up with Gaunt, chattered away to him and then pointed towards Tweed and Paula. She waved and Paula returned the wave as the party approached them.
'You know what you ought to do now, Tweed,' Gaunt boomed out across the car park. 'Take the ferry to Rock.
From over there you get the most terrific view of Padstow – and if you enjoy climbing that's the place for you.'
'We'll consider it,' Tweed replied.
'What do you think of the rowboat?' Jennie asked gleefully, pointing to the Mayflower III.
'Rowboat?' Gaunt roared. 'That's one of the most powerful cabin cruisers in the world.
'He's sensitive about his toy,' Jennie told Paula.
'All aboard that's comin' aboard,' Gaunt bellowed.
He shinned down a short ladder attached to the harbour wall, jumped on to the deck, spread both arms wide.
Isn't she a beauty? I keep her in perfect trim.'
'Like hell you do!' Jennie burst out. She gestured to the brass rails gleaming in the sun like gold. 'I've spent days cleaning up this old tub.'
'I think the ferry is a good idea,' Tweed said.
Anything to avoid getting trapped aboard the Mayflower. Lord knew where Gaunt would decide to sail them to once the tide returned – maybe down the estuary and way out into the Atlantic.
'Have to take the coastal path to the cove, then,' Gaunt shouted. 'Now it's low tide. Have a good trip…'
As Tweed approached the steps leading to the path with Newman and Paula he saw Butler and Nield appear out of nowhere. They had accompanied Tweed from the Metro-pole and had then melted away when he was joined by Paula.
The group of six was climbing the steep path beyond the steps when Paula noticed Cardon was still holding the canvas bag looped over his shoulder from a strap. He had held it close to his side all the time they had spent in the bar at the Old Custom House.
'Philip, what goodies have you got inside that bag?' she asked, walking alongside him.
'This and that. Might come in handy. You never know. Remembering what's already happened in peaceful Cornwall. The body count is now ten. Eight at the manor. Celia Yeo. And last night Tweed told me about Buchanan's call to him yesterday. So the real postman was found with his throat cut near Five Lanes. A very hospitable part of the world, Corn wall.'
Ten, Paula thought grimly. Ten bodies now – including poor Celia Yeo lying at the foot of High Tor. She must tell Tweed about their 'outing' as soon as she had him on his own.
In the brilliant sunshine they went on climbing out of sight of the town at the bottom of a green slope to their left. The sea to their right was masked by a thick hedge lower down. Paula kept thinking of the estuary as 'the sea' – it didn't seem like a river.
A signpost bearing the legend TO FERRY pointed to a side path descending the side of the hill. The path led to a flight of wide stone steps dropping steeply to a small cove surrounded with abyss-like rock walls. Not realizing it was the clear air, Tweed estimated it was only a two-minute crossing to Rock.
At the bottom of the steps they found themselves inside a tiny cove, hemmed in from the world by sheer granite walls. Paula glanced back as she picked her way to the water's edge over a scatter of ankle-breaking rocks. Under the cliffs at their base were dark deep caves disappearing into black gloom inside their granite alcoves.
She didn't like this cove. She found the atmosphere eerie and they were the only people waiting for the approaching ferry.
Tweed raised his binoculars to his eyes, focusing on a tall thin old house halfway up the slope on the Rock shore. There was a series of flashes originating from an upper window.
'Someone across there is sending a signal,' he said grimly.
'It's just the sunlight reflecting off some glass,' Newman said.
'It was a brief Morse code signal with a lamp,' Tweed insisted. 'A series of long and short flashes. I'll tell you why I know later…'
The ferry had arrived. Paula wondered how on earth they were expected to board it. The ferry was a small craft capable of carrying only a dozen passengers. The wheel-house was a box-like structure close to the prow – hardly more than twice the size of the phone box Tweed had used outside the Old Custom House. There were only two elderly passengers coming over from Rock.
The boat aimed for the shore prow-first. One of the two tough-looking crew jumped ashore, hauled a plank out of the ferry, balanced it to provide a dry crossing platform to the shore. As the two passengers walked separately and gingerly along the plank the man ashore held one of their hands.
Tweed was the first to board the small vessel. Ignoring the extended helping hand, he climbed the plank nimbly, stepped into the craft. Passengers sat in the open on wooden plank seats with their backs to the gunwales.
Paula sat next to Tweed and studied him. He looked very tense. She knew he hated boats and water and he hadn't taken one of his Dramamines which neutralized sea-sickness.
'Are you all right?' she asked as the boat backed off from the shore.
'We could be in great danger,' Tweed warned Cardon and Newman who sat close to him.
'It's being on the water,' Paula soothed him. 'But it's only a short crossing. A couple of minutes.'
'At least five or more,' Cardon told her.
He unfastened the capacious canvas bag looped over his shoulder. As they proceeded down the narrow channel between sandbank and cliffs he slipped a hand inside and kept it there. Paula wondered what he was holding. A gun?
The two crew were squeezed inside the wheel-house and the skipper stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel. They reached the end of the sandbank and shortly afterwards the skipper swung his wheel. Paula realized there was open water now between them and the beach near Rock. Where do we land? she wondered.
'Quite a view,' Newman commented a minute later.
They had moved out towards Rock into the middle of the estuary. To the north they could see the open Atlantic, beyond two capes. In the exact centre of the oceanic expanse out at sea a huge brutal rock reared up shaped like a volcano. In places the sea glittered dazzling! y where the sun reflected off it. A sharp cold breeze rippled the blue surface.
'Soon be there,'Paula reassured Tweed.
'I hope so,' said Newman, his tone serious.
He leaned back to see past the wheel-house. Coming in from the ocean a large powerboat had suddenly appeared. It was rocketing towards them, its prow high above the water, curving in a wide arc towards them, leaving behind a great white wake stretching out towards the Atlantic. Newman stiffened, slid his hand inside his windcheater, then withdrew his hand empty. He'd never hit a target moving at that speed. They all heard the skipper's words, a mix of anger and anxiety, as he spoke to his mate.
'Bloody maniac. Never seen that boat before…'
Paula stiffened, then felt Tweed's hand on her wrist, squeezing it. She looked at him. He sat perfectly still, all signs of tension gone. She thought she detected an expression of satisfaction, but that was impossible. Tweed glanced across at Butler opposite him as the huge projectile thundered down closer on them.
Butler nodded to Garden. She glanced at Philip. He was nodding back to Butler, the briefest of motions. Newman was staring inside the wheel-house at the skipper. His hands gripped the wheel tightly. He swung it a little to the left – to port – which appeared to be the wrong manoeuvre. It seemed he had panicked, was making a futile attempt to head back for the shore they had left from – taking them straight into the path of the advancing powerboat, which Paula now saw was huge.
Tweed took out Newman's binoculars, which he had put in his own pocket. Cardon, who had been switching his gaze swiftly from the wheel-house to the powerboat, reached across, took the glasses from Tweed's hands. Like Newman, he had summed up the skipper as a man who did not easily lose his nerve.
Cardon focused the field-glasses on the powerboat, which had changed course, was now slantwise to them. Through the lenses he saw the sole occupant, a figure at the wheel. A bizarre figure wearing a skin-diver's helmet and goggles. No chance of ever identifying who was guiding the powerboat. Cardon shoved the glasses back in Tweed's lap with his left hand. Both of his hands dived inside the canvas satchel as Paula watched him.
The roar of the powerboat was deafening as it swept even closer. Paula clenched her fingers tight inside her gloves. They were going to be smashed to matchwood, capsized into water which would be icy in February. Nield calmly inserted a cigarette between his lips without lighting it.
'The skipper knows what he's doing,' Tweed told Paula, his mouth close to her ear.
'You could have fooled me,' she snapped back.
In the brief time before a shattering collision took place the skipper suddenly swung his wheel hard over to starboard – away from the powerboat's course. It was tricky timing. The huge prow of the monster seemed to Paula to loom over them like something out of the film Jaws. One of her hands was now clamped round the plank beneath her, waiting for the frightful impact.
There were inches between the two vessels as the powerboat skimmed past them on the port side. And as it did so Cardon lobbed the grenade he had withdrawn the pin from. It landed in the well behind the hooded figure. Cardon immediately began counting silently, mouthing the numbers clearly as he stared at Paula.
'One… '
Two… '
'Three… '
'Four…'
On 'Four' something made Paula swivel round to the stern of the ferry which was now rocking madly under the impact of the wash from the powerboat. Tweed was already staring with the others in the same direction.
The explosion was thunderous. One second the powerboat was swinging round in a half-circle, ready to come back towards its target. The next second, as the detonation rang out, it split in two – the prow shooting skywards. Paula stared as a gigantic column of water like the geyser in Yellowstone Park soared up, taking with it dark objects which were debris from the shattered wreck.
The water boiled briefly where the powerboat had died, then it became calm with the surface ruffled only by ripples. Tweed was confident neither of the crew had seen Cardon lob the grenade, so intent had they been on steering the ferry clear of disaster at the last moment. The skipper handed over the wheel to his mate and his first words as he came out of the wheel-house confirmed Tweed's assumption.
'Sorry for that, folks. We've 'ad similar fools in the past. Think it's fun to scare the 'ell out of my passengers. But I don't know what that was. And then 'is petrol blew. That's 'appened before, too. Young idiots buys these expensive fast boats – must be fast for 'em – and then 'asn't the money to keep up any maintenance. I'm givin' you all your money back…'
'You most certainly are doing nothing of the sort,' Tweed said forcefully. 'Only one pound each for the return trip to Rock – and you saved our lives by your expert seamanship.'
'Anything that keeps you 'appy.' The skipper frowned. 'Never seen quite so big an explosion when petrol tank goes. Still, was a big boat. Now, we're landin' in a moment…'
11
They landed from the ferry by the same method – walking down the plank while the mate stood alongside, ready to give anyone who needed it a hand. Paula had no hesitation in reaching out for her hand to be grasped – her legs felt like jelly after their recent experience.
'See that stick with the flag stuck in b
each?' called out the skipper. 'When you want to come back wait wherever it's been moved to. Tide will start to come in in the next hour…'
Tweed had walked down the plank, again ignoring the hand offered. His feet immediately sank into the sand which had recently been covered with water. Ploughing his way up to a ramp leading off the beach was like walking on a giant sponge. Paula and Newman caught him up as the other three men followed at a distance, spreading out, their eyes everywhere.
'You look smug,' Paula accused Tweed.
'Sorry. Just satisfied that my instinct was right.'
'What instinct?' Newman demanded.
That the enemy had now tracked us to Padstow.'
'Anything to back that up?' Newman continued. 'You're always so keen on data to back up a theory.'
'Last night I couldn't sleep. As you know, my bedroom window gives a panoramic view of the estuary and this shore. You remember, Bob, you lent me your binoculars.'
'You saw something, then?'
'Oh, yes, I saw something.' Tweed chuckled, outwardly unaffected that they had just escaped sudden death. 'I saw something. Switching off the lights, I pulled back the curtains. Soon I saw a lamp flashing on and off over here. Red, then green, then red. Morse code – but the message was in cipher, if you understand me. A stream of meaningless letters, so I couldn't read what they were sending. But I could guess.'
'And you guessed what?' Paula pressed.
'That the sender in Rock was informing someone in Padstow that we have arrived at the Metropole. That was the first stage of targeting us.'
'And the second stage?'
'That was the lamp flashing which I noticed from the cove while we waited for the ferry. It was probably signalling to that powerboat cruising out at sea just beyond the estuary – that we'd be aboard the ferry.'
'Sounds thin,' Newman objected. 'It presupposes someone was watching the ferry for hours. We might never have come here.'
'So maybe they were watching the inner harbour through binoculars from Rock. These people leave nothing to chance. After we left perhaps a certain pennant was hoisted up the mast of that cabin cruiser, Mayflower III. Remember who suggested we take that ferry?'
