by Colin Forbes
'Evenin'.' he drawled in an upper-crust voice. 'Nice to see you're all having an early night for a change.'
He adopted a typical stance, leaning against a wall while he lit a king-size cigarette.
'Marler.' Tweed began, 'Paula is puzzled about what's going on. Tell her about your Paris trip. You've come here straight off the plane, I imagine?'
'Of course. Paula is puzzled? So am I.'
'Tell her what happened, for Heaven's sake.' Tweed suggested.
'Please do.' Paula urged.
'Started with a phone call from an informant of mine in Paris. Jules Fournier. I can give you his name now the poor sod is dead. We met at five o'clock – after it was dark – outside a bar in the Rue St-Honore. He told me on the phone something big was soon to break, mentioned a name which shook me up a bit. I boarded a flight this morning to suss out the meeting place. Seemed safe enough. A main street in Paris when there'd be lots of other people about. I didn't realize that could be dangerous. Black mark.'
'What name did he mention?' asked Paula.
'All in good time. It's that quick mind of yours. So bear with me. Fournier was a slip of a man with greasy hair. He'd been a totally reliable informant of mine in the past. I was leaning up against an outside window of the bar, pretending to read Figaro. Lots of people about, hurrying home from work, as I'd anticipated. I was carrying a Walther automatic in a hip holster – borrowed from a friend in Paris earlier. You never know on an assignment like that. Fournier turned up out of nowhere.'
'On foot?' asked Paula.
'That was my impression. He seemed unusually nervous, glancing over his shoulder. He spilled out his so-called information in French. Didn't make much sense. He mentioned the same name again, said the chap concerned was engaged on an operation to change the world, that he had contacts everywhere. That was when a group of motorcyclists clad in black leather, wearing crash helmets, came staggering along the pavement. I thought they were drunk. They were shouldering people out of the way, making rude signs if anyone protested. I saw them clearly, but not their faces, of course. As they came up close to Fournier one of them stumbled. I was an idiot.'
He paused, took a deep drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out in the crystal-glass ashtray Monica had pushed close to him on her desk.
'Never heard you say that before.' Paula said quietly.
'I was too intent on what Fournier was trying to tell me. He said he'd sent me a letter. Then it happened. I still curse myself.'
'What happened? I doubt if you could have prevented it. Not in rush hour on the Rue St-Honore.' Paula commented.
'These drunken roughs, as I thought, almost formed a circle round us. My alarm bells started shrieking then, but it was too late.'
'What was too late?' Tweed enquired.
'It was the chap who had stumbled – appeared to -when he cannoned into Fournier. Said, "Sorry, mate," in English. As they disappeared Fournier gave a gulp and fell forward into my arms. I grabbed him round the waist and my right hand was sticky. Blood. The stumbler had rammed a knife up under Fournier's left shoulder blade. As he sagged I checked his pulse after I'd rested him against the window. Nothing. He was dead. A very professional job.'
'What about the motorcyclist gang?' Paula asked.
'They'd disappeared like the wind. I decided I'd better do likewise. Carrying a Walther without a certificate I didn't fancy an interview with the flics – or the big boys they'd summon. I signalled to Archie and left poor Fournier after telling a woman who'd stopped he'd had a heart attack and could she get a doctor. Not a thing I could do to help my informant.'
'And who is Archie?' Paula enquired. 'Archie who?'
'His second name doesn't matter. He's probably the best informant I have in the world. He's based in Paris but flits all over the place. When I arrived at De Gaulle Airport on the way in I'd phoned Archie, asked him to be close by as back-up. He's quite a character.'
'Where was he at the moment of the murder?' Tweed interjected.
'On the far side of the street in a doorway. I doubt if he saw much, with the traffic being so heavy. But he got my message and disappeared. That's it.'
'No, it isn't.' Paula persisted. 'What was the name Fournier mentioned on the phone which startled you -and then repeated in Paris before he was murdered?'
'I suppose I heard him correctly. He was gabbling on both occasions.' Marler paused to light a fresh king-size. Outwardly calm, Paula sensed he was upset by what he regarded as a lethal failure on his part.
'Leopold Brazil, if you can believe it…'
2
There was a stunned silence inside Tweed's office. Paula's and Monica's expressions suggested sheer disbelief. It was Paula who broke the silence.
'Leopold Brazil? The international power-broker? The mystery man who it's rumoured has the ear of the American President, our Prime Minister, the President of France, and Lord knows who else?'
'That was the name I'm pretty sure I heard.' Marler said. 'And Fournier mentioned it twice.'
'He must have made a mistake.' Paula insisted.
'Maybe.' intervened Tweed. 'I'll let you into a secret. For the past few weeks I've personally been making discreet enquiries about him. He's like a second Kissinger, but without the publicity. And like Kissinger he conducts shuttles between the world's capitals in his private jet when trouble is looming. He's a very powerful man and rich.' He paused. 'So powerful that earlier today I was summoned to Downing Street. Someone talked. I was told by the PM personally to discontinue making any more enquiries about Mr Brazil.'
'Keep off the grass.' Marler said laconically.
'So what are we going to do?' asked Paula.
She was interrupted by the phone ringing. Monica took the call, spoke briefly, then put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Tweed.
'It's Rene Lasalle, your old friend in the DST.' She was referring to the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, French counter-espionage.
Tweed pressed a button on his phone. He lifted the receiver and greeted the Frenchman cordially. Lasalle sounded agitated.
'Are you on scrambler?'
'Yes. You sound bothered.'
'Does your man, Marler, wear a shooting jacket and corduroy trousers?'
Tweed glanced at Marler who was dressed exactly as Lasalle had described.
'What's all this about?' Tweed asked tersely. 'I don't like questions about my staff any more than you would.'
'Has Marler visited Paris today?'
'Same reaction. I repeat, what is this all in aid of, Rene?'
'Murder.' Lasalle paused as though expecting Tweed to say something, but Tweed remained silent. 'Murder,' the Frenchman repeated. 'Cold-blooded murder in the middle of Paris. A man called Jules Fournier, occupation not known, was stabbed to death a few hours ago during the rush hour. In the Rue St-Honore, of all places.'
'So?'
'Fournier was with another man who laid the dead body against the window of a bar. He then told a woman – in French – Fournier had had a heart attack and told her to get a doctor.'
'So?' Tweed repeated.
'She gave a good description. A very observant lady. I was reminded of Marler.'
'No one else in the world looks like him? Is that what you're getting at?' Tweed demanded.
'What about the clothes description? Very British garb.'
'What about it?'
'Tweed, you're stalling…'
'I'm damned annoyed at your absurd assumption. And no, I've never seen the said person wearing such clothes. Also he's been in London all day. I can vouch for that myself.'
Heaven help me, Tweed thought, and that's one place I won't be going to. He changed the subject.
'While we're on the phone – on scrambler as we agreed earlier – have you got any further with your clandestine check on Leopold Brazil?'
'More rumours about him I don't like. That he's planning something global. Oh, I've been warned off checking any further on him. Would you believe it -I w
as summoned to the Elysee and the President himself told me Brazil was an important man and I would now stop any further investigation.'
'And your decision?'
'Blast the Elysee. They can sack me and I'll continue the investigation on my own time. Something's rotten in the state of Denmark.'
Tweed smiled to himself. Lasalle prided himself on using English colloquialisms and well-known phrases.
'Why not proceed very secretly? Only use a small circle of people you know you can trust with your life.'
'That is a small circle in today's world. Let's keep in touch. I'm sorry I went off the deep end when I started this call.'
'Forget it. Look after yourself. And I agree – we'll keep in touch …'
Tweed put down the phone. He stared at Marler.
'I went out on a limb there. Did you travel to Paris under your own name?'
'Of course not. I used one of my false passports. The call from Fournier bothered me so I took every precaution.'
'Get rid of those clothes fast. Lasalle has a woman witness – the one you spoke to after Fournier was killed -and she gave a perfect description of you. I'd like to have told Lasalle about the gang in motorcyclists' outfits, but I couldn't.'
'Understood. Agreed.' Marler said.
'You were never in Paris.' Tweed went on emphatically. 'If you were caught up in a murder investigation by the French police you could be kept there for weeks. Lasalle wouldn't be able to help you. Now, lose those clothes.'
'Will do.' Marler paused at the door just before leaving. 'I've remembered something Fournier said when he was gabbling on. He'd just mentioned Leopold Brazil. Said I might get info from a servant working for General Sterndale. I suppose that couldn't be the Sterndale's Bank chap?'
'Anything else?' Tweed asked brusquely, worried about the clothes problem.
'Also said Sterndale trusted his servant who lived in with the General. Chap called Marchat. No idea of his nationality…'
'That gives us a link at last between Leopold Brazil and Sterndale.' Paula commented, hiding her excitement.
'I had one already.' Tweed told her. 'Recently I bumped into Sterndale again. I was visiting someone at that boring club where I'd first met him. I met him on his way out. He started talking about Brazil, about what a brilliant man he was. Then he had to rush off.'
'Which is why you sent Philip to Wareham on a so-called holiday – then asked him to check up on Sterndale.'
'You're right.' Tweed shifted in his swivel chair. 'I have an unpleasant feeling something pretty big is being planned. International. I don't like Fournier's reference to "an operation to change the world".'
'Could anyone really do that?' Paula asked sceptically.
'Depends on how clever they are, how powerful. There's nothing standing in their way, which keeps me awake at night. We have a hopeless PM. Washington is a joke. Bonn has a man who just wants to go down in history as creator of the United States of Europe. Barmy idea – the German doesn't recall history. The Austro-Hungarian Empire, controlled from Vienna before the First World War, was a hotch-potch of nationalities, just as Europe would be. So what happens at the end of that horrible conflict? The Empire collapses, breaks up into various individual nations – Hungary, Czechoslovakia, et cetera. Austria is left as a tiny state of no account.'
'What about today?' Paula enquired.
'The situation reminds me of what I've read about the 1930s. A man called Adolf Hitler, evil but a brilliant psychologist, manipulates the Western leaders like pulling the strings of puppets.'
'You mean Brazil could be a new Hitler?'
'No! But you queried that phrase "engaged in an operation to change the world" – the West is leaderless, ripe for a genius to manipulate it.'
'You think Brazil is a genius?'
'I met him not so long ago at a party. He came over to talk to me briefly. I had the uncomfortable feeling he knew who I was, about the SIS. He has contacts all over the place. Like an octopus. A very clever man – and a great charmer. He wants to meet me again but I'm dodging him. For the moment.'
'So we have a murder in Paris, which could link up with two more murders in Dorset. That's pretty wide-spread.' Paula mused. 'And I wonder what happened to the missing servant, Marchat.'
'You noticed that, then?' Tweed smiled drily. 'Over the phone, as I told you earlier, Chief Inspector Buchanan told me quite specifically the fire brigade had searched what remains of the manor and brought out two bodies -identified as Sterndale and his son, Richard. So what happened to this shadowy figure Marchat?'
Inside a large old stone house on the fabulously expensive Avenue Foch in Paris, a large tall man sat behind a Louis Quinze desk. The walls of the room were lined with bookcases but the lighting was very dim, the room mostly in darkness. He spoke in English to his visitor, seated on the far side of the desk and shrouded in gloom.
'I think you ought to start on your travels again. Take an early flight to Heathrow tomorrow, hire a car, drive down to Dorset. Specifically, to Wareham. Clear?'
'As far as it goes, yes,' replied the visitor. 'What am I looking for in Dorset?'
'Trouble. It may be a clean-up job you have to undertake. If so, do it. No loose ends, please.'
'I'm an expert at locating them, tying them up.'
'Which is why I'm sending you. I've explained what has happened, as far as I know it. Certain people will be running all over the county like ants. Watch your step.'
'I always do that,' the visitor replied, pushing back his chair prior to leaving.
'I repeat, watch your step.' Leopold Brazil emphasized. 'You don't know the details, but a world is at stake.'
In the bar of the Priory Eve Warner tilted her glass, knocked back her fourth large vodka. Newman watched her cynically. As far as he could tell the amount of alcohol had no effect on her. She had a head like a rock. Philip was sipping the last of his single glass of wine.
'Bed for me.' Eve announced. She yawned without putting her hand over her mouth. 'It's been an exciting day.'
'I wouldn't call it exciting.' Philip objected. 'I think tragic is a better word.'
'Well. It isn't as though we'd known either of the victims. Good night, Bob. See you in the morning, I hope?'
'Possibly.' Newman replied.
'Tap on my door, Philip, when you come down. Just to say good night.'
'Your rooms are close?' Newman asked Philip when she had gone, leaving the bar empty except for the two men.
'I'm not in the main hotel. There's what they call the Boathouse down by the river. You get to it through some French windows in the lounge. Eve's got the suite across from mine.'
'Convenient.' Newman commented with a dry smile. 'How did that come about?'
'By chance. Tweed, who knows this place, booked me the suite. Eve was booked into the one opposite. I have just met her.' Philip ended with a note of protest.
'Don't mind me. Just joking. How did you meet her?'
Philip explained the circumstances, leaving out any mention of the red Porsche which appeared to have followed him from Park Crescent. He'd first seen it close to Baker Street underground station.
'Well, it will make a change from being on your own in that empty house. You're not moving, then? It's over a year since Jean died, isn't it?'
'Yes.' Philip paused. 'That house was our home and I am definitely not leaving it. Tweed sent you down here as back-up, didn't he?'
'Yes. He's very worried about something which happened since you arrived. He didn't say what. The barman has gone. Open your jacket so I can get at the pocket.'
Philip obeyed the suggestion without comment. Newman produced a Walther eight-shot 7.65mm automatic with spare mags, slipped the weapon into the pocket.
'Your favourite weapon. It was Tweed's idea. So he has to be worried.'
'Something you ought to know. As Eve told you, I met General Sterndale in this bar much earlier – before she and I drove out to the cliff at Lyman's Tout. Sterndale told me that despite hav
ing a servant who lived in, a man called Marchat.'
'Spell that, please.'
Philip did so. He'd asked the General the same question.
'Did Sterndale tell you where this Marchat came from? To me the name sounds Mittel-European.'
'No, he didn't. I was going to say Sterndale told me his house was so isolated he personally closed and locked up every shutter over windows each evening.'
'So he created his own fire-trap, poor devil. Tweed gave me all the details he'd got from Buchanan. I called him from a phone box when I was close to Wareham. I'll walk you down to this Boathouse place, if you don't mind. It sounded fascinating…'
The garden beyond the French windows was illuminated with lanterns at intervals. As they walked together along a pebble path Philip told Newman about Marchat.
'The weird thing is.' he went on, 'this servant, Marchat, seems to have vanished without trace. Tweed was quite definite only two bodies were brought out of the ruins.'
'So in the morning we'll start tracking Mr Marchat. As he lived in the mansion the local pubs would be a good place to start. In the country they know all about who is who. This is quite a place.'
They had arrived at the Boathouse. It appeared to be a modern building, designed to fit in with the ancient Priory, or there had been skilful renovation. Newman peered in through tall glass doors as Philip took out his key. Beyond was a large hall with a stone floor, very spacious and with several doors leading off.
'My suite is the one at the end on the left, overlooks the River Frome. Eve's is the one on the other side of the hall.'
'See you in the morning for breakfast – if that isn't getting in the way of a friendship,' Newman suggested. 'You need some female company.'
'I'll join you for breakfast.' Philip paused. 'I've only just met her. She's attractive but I keep getting danger signals flashing. And she told me she was – I'm quoting her exact words – "I'm in security. And it's rather special…" I got the impression she'd let that slip out.'
'Said something similar to me.' Newman slapped him on the back. 'It's just possible she's on our side.'
