by Colin Forbes
'Everything looks the same as before.' Newman remarked as they left the Mercedes parked outside Devastoke Cottage.
'No it isn't.' said Marler and produced his Beretta, holding it close to his side. 'Partridge clearly told us he wasn't going to draw the curtains over the living room while he had some more kip. Well, they're closed now.'
'Could have changed his mind.' Newman pointed out.
'There's a path leading round the side of the cottage, probably to a back door. I suggest we go and see…'
Their feet made no sound on the moss-strewn path and at the rear of the cottage they found the back door. They stopped abruptly as Marler pointed, raised one finger for absolute silence. The back door was slightly ajar, had been jemmied open forcibly, shown by splintered wood in the door jamb. He pushed it open slowly, his gun raised. They crept into a darkened kitchen with an old iron cooker in a setback.
Newman was gripping the. 38 Smith amp; Wesson in his hand and Philip had produced his Walther. They walked slowly into a narrow hall. The door to the sitting room, now on their left, was half open. Marler stood to one side, slowly pushed it wide open. By now their eyes were accustomed to the semidarkness.
'Oh, my God!' Philip whispered.
Partridge was lying half on and half off the couch, his head on the floor, twisted at a bizarre angle. Marler walked in, bent down, checked the carotid artery, looked up.
'Dead as a dodo. His neck is broken. I think I know whose work this is. There's a new assassin on the loose in Europe. Kills for big sums. Simple technique. He comes up behind his victim, slips his arm round the target's neck in a certain way. This is the result. They call him The Motorman.'
'Weird name.' Philip said quietly. 'Why The Motor-man?'
'Because he moves like greased lightning. As I'm sure he did here. He thought he was killing Marchat…'
5
'So you think this assassin believed he'd killed Marchat?' Tweed asked.
He was sitting in his office at Park Crescent when Monica told him Newman was on the line. He had listened with a poker-face while Newman related tersely what had happened, including the encounter with Crowbar Craig. This was the first time he interrupted Newman's narrative.
'That could be the deputy of Mr Leopold Brazil, a man called Carson Craig. But Monica has dug up more data on this gentleman. He usually sports a business suit and a sophisticated accent.' His tone became ironic. 'The sort of chap you could invite to your club.'
'Except that I don't waste my time belonging to any club.' Newman retorted. 'But I thought his Cockney accent was a fake. "Gentleman" is not the term I'd use. Basically he is a sadistic tough. Nicknamed "Crowbar". Uses one to smash people's kneecaps if they annoy him.'
'I see. Bob, Monica has also found Brazil owns Grenville Grange, in the vicinity of the Sterndale house. Perched near the cliffs at Lyman's Tout. Check that place out. Not by yourself. Take Philip and Marler with you.'
'If you insist.'
'I do. Three murders in Dorset is three too many. Try to avoid Buchanan as long as you can. Also send Butler to this Partridge's previous address in Poole to check him out. I presume you noted his address when he showed you the driving licence.'
'I did. I'd better get moving before Buchanan hoves up on the horizon.'
'Do that. I sense the momentum of something is building up. Continue to stay with Philip at the Priory. Anything further with Philip's new friend, Eve Warner? I can't confirm whether she's Special Branch or not.'
'Nary a sign of the lady so far this morning. Signing off.'
Take care…'
'Why don't I keep my big mouth shut?' Newman said to himself as he emerged from the phone box in South Street in Wareham. Standing on the kerb, leaning against her red Porsche, was Eve Warner. Dressed in a clean white windcheater with the hood hanging on her shoulders, she waved to him. She had a small frame, he noted, and even wearing drainpipe blue denims with the windcheater she looked very attractive. No wonder Philip seems to be falling for her, he thought.
Top of the morning to you, Bob,' she called out cheekily. 'I see your Merc parked behind me. Going someplace? I'll come with you. Hello, Philip. Sleep OK, all on your ownsome?'
'Very well.'snapped Philip, who had just walked out of the Black Bear. He thought her remark tactless, as he'd told her that this was his first holiday on his own since Jean's death.
'Then don't sound like a sore-head,' she rapped back. 'Where are we off to today?'
'You're not invited.'Newman told her bluntly as she came up close to him.
Marler had slipped out of the hotel and into the back of Newman's car without her noticing. She was too busy flashing her seductive smile at Newman, intent on persuading him.
'Don't be an old spoilsport.'she challenged him. 'I need company.'
'Look elsewhere, then. Excuse me…'
'I can always follow you!' she shouted at his back as he disappeared inside the hotel. It took him only a few minutes to locate the burly Harry Butler, to give him Tweed's instructions about checking on Partridge and the address in Poole.
'What about my sidekick, Pete Meld? He's in his room.'
'Tell him to stay here and keep a discreet watch on the Priory Hotel for any sign of Chief Inspector Buchanan. He's round here somewhere. I'll come back here for your report later in the day.'
When he came out on to the street Eve was leaning up against her car, arms and legs crossed.
'You don't get rid of me as easily as that,' she told him.
'We'll see about that.'
Being careful not to show his annoyance at her persistence, he got behind the wheel. Philip was already in the front passenger seat; Marler was secreted in the back. He drove off towards the bridge, heading for Corfe and then Kingston, recalling that Philip had told him about the route over breakfast. In his rear-view mirror he saw Eve take off after him.
'I'll lose you, hellcat.'he said aloud.
'She's all right.'Philip protested.
Newman made no reply.
Back in his office at Park Crescent Tweed had relayed to Paula and Monica the gist of his conversation with Newman.
'The Motorman?' Paula repeated. 'He does sound a bit sinister. From what you've told me he must have moved jolly fast to commit that foul murder at Devastoke Cottage.'
'Hence his nickname, I presume. The Motorman,' Tweed said grimly. 'I've heard mention of him before. I know who it was. Arthur Beck, Chief of Federal Police in Switzerland. Get him on the phone, Monica – you should find him at his headquarters in Berne.'
Monica was reaching for her phone when it began ringing. Answering it, she nodded to Tweed.
'It's Lasalle from Paris again. Sounds urgent.'
'Tweed,' Lasalle burst out the moment he knew he was talking to him, 'we've just discovered another topflight scientist and his family have disappeared. Over a month ago. From Grenoble. He was on leave, hence the delay in his unit realizing he'd gone missing.'
'Another one? That makes a total of twenty of the world's most important scientists missing from Europe, here, and America. Details, please. What was this one's speciality?'
'Advanced satellite communication. Very secret work – probably the top man in his field anywhere. Georges Blanc. Like the others, his wife has disappeared too.'
'Kidnapped?' Tweed suggested.
'No evidence of that. Before vanishing he instructed his lawyer to sell his house and contents – antiques included. The lawyer has to send the proceeds to a numbered account in a Belgian bank. The President is raving mad. We were leading the world in that field.'
'Any clue as to how Blanc left Grenoble?'
'His chauffeur – I'm having him flown to Paris so I can interrogate him myself – told me on the phone he had driven Blanc, his wife, and a load of luggage over the border to a remote airfield in Germany. He was ordered to drive back to Grenoble after Blanc handed him a handsome bonus to keep his mouth shut. Blanc's story was he was on a top secret mission.'
'Any type of ai
rcraft waiting on the airfield while this chauffeur was there?'
'No. Blanc is brilliant. He was working on an advanced satellite – for communications between the Earth and the orbiting satellite.'
'I'll add him to the list. While you're on the phone, have you ever heard of The Motorman?' Tweed enquired.
'God! Why do you ask?'
'Because this reputed assassin may be operating over in this country.'
'He's a new, highly skilled killer. Very expensive, so the underworld rumours have it. He's assassinated two bankers in Paris. That's confidential. We've kept very quiet about him while we track him. Not a clue so far.'
'What sort of bankers?' Tweed asked quietly.
'Both owned small, very exclusive banks. One founded in the time of Napoleon. Family banks.'
'How can you be certain The Motorman was responsible?' Tweed pressed. 'He leaves a calling card?'
'Of course not. It's the technique. Both bankers had a lot of security round their houses. It was bypassed, God knows how. They both died of broken necks. One was killed in his library while his wife was in the adjoining room. She never heard a thing.'
'Any money missing?'
'Strange you should ask that,' the Frenchman commented. 'In each case a lot of the capital was held in bearer bonds. They've vanished. How the hell am I supposed to trace bearer bonds?'
'The banks have gone bust?' Tweed enquired.
'No. Enough cash was kept in each branch to keep them solvent. Tweed, I'm up to my neck, over my head.'
'You'll swim to the surface,' Tweed assured him. 'You always do. Keep in touch…'
Tweed sighed to himself as he put down the phone. Monica asked him whether she should still call Arthur Beck and he nodded. She began dialling immediately.
'Beck here. What is it, Tweed?'
The Swiss police chief, normally genial and calm however fraught a situation, sounded brusque.
'Arthur, a little while ago you mentioned an assassin, a professional, called The Motorman. Have you had any luck identifying him?'
'Why?'
'He's been operating in France…'
'I know that…'
'Well, what you probably don't know is that he's now in this country as far as we can tell. He tried to kill a key witness to a double murder but by mistake murdered the wrong man.'
'First time he's made a mistake.' There was a pause. 'I don't like this – he's becoming very international. I've got nowhere tracking him down. He just disappears into thin air. He's responsible for killing three Swiss.'
'What were their professions?'
'Bankers.'
'Owners of small private long-established banks?'
'How on earth did you guess that? We've kept silent about his activities. I thought that might throw him off his guard.'
'And you know it was The Motorman because with all his three victims he broke their necks?'
'Yes. He's the bloody Invisible Man. No amount of top security can keep him out. You can imagine how security-conscious bankers are.'
'He bypasses their security in some weird way?'
'Oh, I think I've now worked that out. Tweed, he talks his way in. In all three cases the security was still intact. I'm wondering now if he has an attractive woman with him when he calls to help get him inside.'
'Could The Motorman be a woman?' Tweed speculated.
'She'd have to be pretty strong. One of the bankers was built like a bull. Didn't save him. And there's no sign of a struggle in all three cases. Except with the bull, whose feet scuffed up the carpet.'
'To change the subject, do you know anything about a Leopold Brazil?'
Another pause, a long one. Tweed, I've been warned off making any enquiries about him.'
'I don't believe it. Nobody warns you off. Who are you talking about?'
'That I can't tell you. Damn it, no one pushes me up against the wall. He has an expensive villa along the lake in Zurich. Between you and me I am watching discreetly. Very discreetly. Something strange about that man with all his power. I'll tell you he flew off in his private jet from Kloten, Zurich, on his way to Paris.'
'What kind of a jet?'
'Well, here's the tricky part. He has two private jets, both Lears. One has Brazil SA, the name of his Swiss company, in huge letters along the fuselage. The other, painted white, has no markings identifying that it belongs to him. He uses the white jet to confuse watchers whether he's aboard or not. Both have aircrews standing in rotas twenty-four hours round the clock. It was the white job which flew to Charles de Gaulle. That's it.'
Tweed put down the phone. His concentration on what Beck had told him was so great he hadn't noticed Monica was holding her phone, staring at him impatiently.
'Lasalle is back on the line from Paris. He's asked me twice to make sure you're on scrambler.'
'I still am,' Tweed said, and picked up the phone again. 'Sorry to keep you hanging on.'he said into the mouthpiece.
'I told you I was warned off investigating Leopold Brazil. Which is why I omitted to tell you he flew in yesterday from Zurich. A limo with tinted windows met him and drove him to his villa in the Avenue Foch. One of my best men identified him as he left the limo.'
'So why tell me now.'
'Because I'm sure now he's on his way to Britain within the next two hours.'
Tweed half-closed his eyes. Paula noted the mannerism, which told her he was tense.
'How do you know that?'
'The pilot of his white Lear jet just filed a flight plan for two hours hence.'
'To where?'
'Bournemouth International Airport. In Dorset…'
Tweed thanked Lasalle briefly, jumped up from his desk, ran to a cupboard, hauled out two cases kept packed for emergency departures – one for himself, the other for Paula.
'We'll take the Ford Escort,' he snapped. 'I'll drive. You'd better bring your Browning automatic. Monica, phone the Priory Hotel. Book us each a room. Indefinite stay. You can reach me there, but wrap up any message.'
'What's the emergency?' Paula asked.
She had already opened a locked drawer, taken out her Browning. 32 automatic, slipped it into the special pocket sewn into her shoulder bag which gave her instant access to the weapon. Tweed was studying the map of Dorset on the wall.
'Monica,' he rapped out before she could dial, 'if Newman phones tell him to post one man at the roundabout just south of Stoborough Green. Not Stoborough. Stoborough Green. I want another man posted to watch the ferry across the exit from Poole Harbour. Both are watching for a limousine with tinted-glass windows. If either man spots it they are to follow it with caution. My guess is it will be headed for Grenville Grange, in the Purbecks near Lyman's Tout. Leave you in charge…'
Paula caught him up as he jumped in behind the wheel of the Ford Escort parked outside as she slid into the front passenger seat.
'What is the emergency?' she repeated.
'Leopold Brazil is headed our way – flying within two hours from Paris to Bournemouth International Airport.' He was already driving towards Baker Street as Paula fastened her seat belt. 'From Bournemouth International he has to drive by one of only two routes – and we'll have watchers checking. Which means we should beat him to Wareham.'
'What is happening? Everything has suddenly moved.'
'I think Dorset is about to explode…'
6
'It's no good.' Newman said as he drove up the steep, winding hill to Kingston, leaving Corfe behind. 'Your Eve Warner is a damned good driver and I'm not going to lose her.' He checked his rear-view mirror. 'She's just come round that snaky bend like a pro at Brand's Hatch.'
'In that case.' Marler drawled from his curled-up position on the rear floor, 'my hiding is a waste of time. Warn me when you come to another bend and I'll get up, perch in a corner. When she sees me she may think I was sitting like that all the time.'
'Then get ready… Now!'
Newman had accelerated suddenly, swinging round a dangerous curve
. In the back Marler scrambled up, settled himself in a corner of the seat, eased the ache out of his legs.
'Perfect! She didn't see you.' Newman reported.
'I still think we ought to have come in my four-wheel-drive.' Philip protested.
'And you'd have risked running into Buchanan if you'd tried to collect it from outside the Priory.'
'Your Merc will never make it along that track across Lyman's Tout.'
'Who said we were going to try?' Newman enquired.
'Then where the devil are we going?'
'Straight to Grenville Grange, residence of a certain Mr Leopold Brazil.'
'Asking for trouble…'
' "L'audace, toujours I'audace," as Danton once said, or something like that. I checked the map. We turn out of Kingston here to reach the entrance to his drive.'
'And when we're challenged by a posse of guards?'
'I bluff our way in. You seem to have forgotten that once I was a foreign correspondent.' Newman said jauntily. 'In that game you learn to get in anywhere.'
'Prepare for battle.' Marler commented.
The entrance to Grenville Grange appeared suddenly off a lonely road on the heights of the Purbecks. Two massive wrought-iron gates were thrown back and an open pebble drive stretched beyond them. Philip saw the dark hulk of Grenville Grange half a mile beyond. No sign of any guards, no sign of life.
'Stop the car a minute if you're going in there.' Philip said.
'All right. But why?' asked Newman, pulling up.
I want to go back and persuade Eve to wait for us back down the road. You heard what Marler said.'
'Good idea. She'll only get in the way. I'd been thinking about that same problem myself…'
Eve had stopped her Porsche a dozen yards behind them, behind the high grey stone wall which bordered the road. She raised her dark eyebrows as Philip approached and flashed him her inviting smile.
'I'll bet Bob Newman could horsewhip me. Tell him it's a free country.'
'Eve.' Philip perched his elbows on the edge of her open window. This could be very tricky. Dangerous, even…'
