by Colin Forbes
'Yes. Of course you know about bearer bonds?' Tweed enquired.
'Usually issued by the big international oil companies. Other large conglomerates, too. They're a way of moving – or storing – really large sums of money. A single bearer bond can be worth a huge amount of money. The weakness is you have to guard them like gold – they have nothing on them to show the owner. So they're totally negotiable anywhere in the world. One bond could be worth six figures in pounds. You know this. Why are they significant?'
'Because General Sterndale, who perished in the inferno along with his son, Richard, kept the bulk of the bank's capital in a large old safe in his house.'
'God! Does that mean Sterndale will go bust if the bonds have been reduced to ashes?'
'No. Apparently he kept enough funds at his different branches to keep them solvent.'
'How do you know this?'
'Someone I trust who was close to him told me. But I'm wondering if the bonds were no longer in that safe. A number of other private banks in Europe have had bearer bonds stolen, especially in France and Switzerland…'
That's true.'
'Check out what form their capital was in.'
'This is concerned with my checking out Leopold Brazil?'
'Yes. Where did he get all this money from is the big question. And watch your back.'
'Will do. I'd better warn you this is going to cost you.'
'Bill me.'
'When you leave you ought to drive on to Kimmeridge. An interesting chap lives in a tiny cottage called the Bird's Nest. Useful bloke. I bumped into him in Paris. He's called Archie…'
10
When they returned to Bradfields Tweed had decided that a visit to Archie, the informant Marler also had met during his trip to Paris, would have to wait.
Marler had stayed in the back of Newman's car while the others were Kent's guests. Tweed had not invited him, which was enough to tell him, 'Stay under cover…'
The Mercedes was parked several yards behind Tweed's car and Marler had remained huddled in his corner. Now he wore wrap-around dark glasses and a deerstalker hat, which would make it impossible for someone who had not met him to recognize him.
Going into the house Tweed was surprised to find Eve in the kitchen with Paula, helping her with washing the dishes. Had Paula bulldozed her into giving a hand? The two women seemed to be chatting amiably. As Tweed entered Eve looped a tea towel over a wire hung above an old-fashioned stove to dry.
'Job's done,' she said cheerfully. 'What's next?'
'Back to the Priory for lunch, if we're not too late. Which I hope is not the case…'
As Kent accompanied them into the front garden Newman walked along a paved path leading to the patio where Kent had been chopping wood. Lifting the axe, Newman swung it high, brought it down on a very large log and split it into two smaller pieces.
'One more for the fire.' he said to Kent.
They thanked him for his hospitality and headed for their cars. Newman led the way alongside Tweed a short way ahead of the others.
'That's a very heavy axe,' he commented as they went out on to the road.
'Who is that chap who likes to keep to himself?' Eve asked chirpily. 'The man in the back of Bob's car.'
'A friend who came along for the ride.' Tweed said quickly.
'If it's all right with you I think I'll travel back with Eve in the Porsche.' Philip suggested.
'Why not?' said Tweed agreeably.
Paula joined him in his car, Tweed did a three-point turn and headed back for Corfe and Wareham, leaving the others to follow.
'Did you have to drag Eve into the kitchen by the hair?' Tweed asked.
'Not at all. She volunteered to help, just came in with me. She's a funny girl. She can be warm and friendly, and at other times she's almost rude.'
'She feels the need to assert herself, particularly in the presence of a number of men, would be my guess. I noticed Newman was very quiet while we were in the house.'
'So did I. He was studying our host and Franklin.'
'So, which one intrigued him – and why? Was it
Franklin, or Kent?'
***
They parked their cars on the Quay, the small square on the edge of the Frome. After putting money in the meters they walked the short distance to the Priory. They met trouble the moment they entered the hotel. In the shape of Chief Inspector Buchanan.
'Tweed, Newman, I need to talk to you both. On your own. Now. The lounge is empty. Follow me…'
'Really?' Tweed exploded. 'We've had no lunch and if we don't get it now we go hungry!'
'That's your problem.'
Buchanan was a tall lanky man in his forties, slim and normally with a languid manner. His grey eyes glared at Tweed. Behind him stood his assistant, Sergeant Warden, a tall clean-shaven man who always reminded Tweed of a wooden Indian. This time Warden came to life.
'It is essential the Chief Inspector questions you now.'
'Who asked you?' Tweed rapped out with a rare burst of apparent aggression.
'The lounge,' Buchanan said firmly, fingering his neat brown moustache.
'You have a warrant for our arrest?' Tweed demanded.
'No, of course not…'
'Then we're having lunch first.' Tweed glanced into the dining room where a waitress was hovering, wide-eyed. 'May we, please, all have lunch? Sorry we are rather late.'
'That's all right, sir.' the waitress replied. 'The chef is ready when you are.'
'I said the lounge.' Buchanan repeated, rasping. 'I have a very busy day.'
'Then you have two alternatives.' Tweed told him. Tf you have business elsewhere I suggest you go about it. Otherwise wait in the lounge and we will come in when we have finished a leisurely lunch.'
'You're supposed to cooperate with the police.' Buchanan snapped.
'Not at the drop of a hat – and when we're hungry. I am not arguing the point one moment longer.'
'There have been three murders I am investigating.' Buchanan said after he had come close to Tweed.
'Then what are you hanging about here for?'
'I'll expect you in the lounge after you've had your lunch. Don't take too long
'We'll take as long as we like. I'm not getting indigestion for anyone. Incidentally, you can get coffee in the lounge, and it's very good here…'
On this note, spoken in a genial tone, Tweed entered the dining room.
He skilfully manoeuvred the table placings so that he would be seated at a table by the rear wall with Paula, Newman, and Philip. Taking Eve by the arm he ushered her to another table some distance away, overlooking the garden.
'Bill,' he said to Franklin, 'would you mind looking after Eve?'
'It will be my pleasure.' Franklin agreed with zest.
'Afterwards.' Tweed went on as they sat down, 'we'll be grilled by Buchanan. I don't think you'd enjoy that, so Bill, why not take Eve for a drive out into the country? Leave the dining room quietly before we do.'
'What about Philip?' Eve demanded.
'In a few minutes I'll send him over to join you at this table. Then he can come with you on your jaunt. Don't come back too early.. .'
'What are you up to?' Paula asked quietly after they had ordered. 'I saw you scribble a brief note before you left the car when we arrived. You screwed it into a ball and tossed it into Marler's lap as you passed Bob's car.'
'The note instructed him to go straight back to the Black Bear and stay under cover with Meld – and Butler when he gets back with his car. Now, Philip, if Buchanan should grab you, you're down here with a girl friend on holiday. Don't tell him anything else. I suggest you now go and join Eve and Bill – and later go with them for a ride in the country.'
'I'll go over to their table now, then.'
'He didn't need much encouragement.' Newman commented. 'What's the strategy in coping with Buchanan? He's on the warpath.'
'You and I – with Paula – came down here because we thought Philip would be on his o
wn. You, Paula, insisted on coming. We found he'd met a girl only after we got here. Buchanan knows how deeply affected Philip was -is – by the death of his wife, Jean.'
'And what about people like Marchat?' Paula queried.
'Never heard of him. I'm surprised Buchanan knows about Marchat.. .'
'Partridge.' Newman warned.
'Quite right. But Buchanan has caught on to Partridge very quickly – he did refer to three murders.'
'That's because of me.' Newman explained. 'Before I left Devastoke Cottage with Marler I slipped into the kitchen, where the phone is. I called Dorchester police anonymously, put a silk handkerchief over the mouthpiece to disguise my voice. Simply told them there was a dead body there, at least I thought the man was dead, so would they also send paramedics. I couldn't just walk out and leave the poor devil to rot for days.'
'You were right, again. But why Dorchester?'
'I guessed Buchanan would have established his base at Wareham police station on West Street, on the outskirts. We needed time to get clear. Dorchester would have to phone Wareham and ten-to-one Buchanan would be out.'
'Good thinking. Ah, here's the main course. I could eat a horse.'
'Let's hope you're not going to.' joked Paula.
'Not here. This is a first-rate hotel. Fuel up – we need full stomachs before we face my old friend, Buchanan…'
'You were right, Tweed.' Buchanan greeted them with a dry smile. 'The coffee here is excellent. Do sit down and relax.'
Tweed went on full alert inwardly. He had not expected such an amiable approach. Buchanan was a dangerous opponent, experienced at throwing people off guard. He had arranged the seating cleverly.
With Sergeant Warden, notebook at the ready, Buchanan was ensconced on a couch, long legs crossed behind a wide table. Chairs for his guests were arranged on the other side of the table, upright chairs with arms.
Tweed, Paula, and Newman had just sat down when Buchanan leaned forward. He stared at Tweed.
'Ever heard of a man called Marchat?'
'March-what?'
'I'll spell it.' Buchanan snapped and proceeded to do so. He suddenly switched his gaze to Newman.
'You know a man called Partridge.'
It was a statement rather than a question, a typical Buchanan ploy.
'I have never in my life spoken to anyone with that name.' Newman said blandly.
'Made any anonymous calls to the police?' Buchanan rapped out almost before Newman had finished speaking.
'Not since this morning.' Newman said with a broad grin. 'It isn't really one of my pastimes.'
'I'm serious.' Buchanan snapped. He turned to Tweed. 'So why are you down here with such a heavy back-up?'
'Heavy?'
'There's three of you here and Philip Cardon was with you. Where has he disappeared to? Paula, maybe you would care to enlighten me.'
Paula gave the explanation Tweed had suggested. Coming from her the story carried conviction and Buchanan looked frustrated.
'You're all lying,' he said grimly. 'I suppose you're going to say you haven't heard about the three murders.'
'Are you talking about General Sterndale and his son, Richard?' Tweed enquired, jumping in.
'That's two of them. How do you know about them?'
'It's local gossip,' Tweed said in a bored tone. 'I have even heard the Sterndale mansion was burnt down, that it was arson…'
'It was! The place was sprayed with petrol and then set alight while Sterndale and his son were inside.' He switched his attention suddenly to Paula. 'You know a place called Devastoke Cottage?'
'How do you spell that?' she asked sweetly.
'Never mind.' Buchanan reached in his pocket, pulled out a small cheap wooden frame with a photograph, and tossed it into Tweed's lap. The frame slipped down between his legs under the table and came apart. As he bent down to retrieve it Tweed saw there were two photographs of the same man, one behind the other. He fiddled with the strut at the back of the frame, slipped one photo out, put his foot on it, brought the other photo and the frame above the edge of the table. He spent a short time re-assembling it so the full-length picture of a man in a garden fitted back inside the frame. Then he studied it.
'You've seen him somewhere before?'
Buchanan stared hard at Tweed. He'd made it sound like an accusation.
Paula slipped her shoulder bag onto the floor, rubbed her shoulder as though the strap had been uncomfortable. While Buchanan's attention was concentrated on Tweed she bent down, picked up the photo as Tweed raised his foot, slipped it inside her shoulder bag. Her hand came up holding a handkerchief and she pretended to blow her nose.
'You've had enough time to study it,' Buchanan rasped.
'I've never seen this man in my life.' Tweed said truthfully. 'But he has an interesting face. Who is it?'
'Marchat. We're sure of that. We found that framed photo tucked under some foreign newspapers at the back of a drawer.'
'Three murders, you said,' Tweed reminded him. 'Who is the third victim? This man?'
'It was supposed to be, we think. Marchat lived on his own at Devastoke Cottage. We found a body there. But it was the body of a man called Partridge. We found an agreement to lease the cottage in Partridge's favour, as a tenant of Marchat. We believe the murderer made a mistake, thought Partridge, who had just moved in, was Marchat.'
'Why?' asked Newman.
'Because Marchat was a servant at Sterndale Manor, the only one. Normally he lived in five days a week and spent his weekends at the cottage.'
'Still don't understand,' Newman commented.
'We think Marchat could have given us a clue as to who torched Sterndale Manor, that he was supposed to have perished in the flames with the Sterndales.'
'I suppose it's a theory.' said Newman.
'So.' Buchanan said, taking back the framed photograph, 'none of you know anything? Is that it?'
'We know what you've told us.' Tweed said placidly. 'Oh, you mentioned you found that photo under some foreign newspapers. What country were they from?'
'Copies of the Journal de Geneve. At least a fortnight old. Geneva. Switzerland
11
After talking to Tweed outside Bradfields, Keith Kent's remote house, Harry Butler headed back on the Fireblade through Corfe and Studland to where he had hidden his car.
He left the motorcycle perched on the grass verge and walked the last hundred yards to the entrance to the sandy track. He held his own Walther by his side, approached the Sierra cautiously. It appeared to be just where he had left it.
He listened for several minutes, heard only the endless crash of the waves on the invisible shore. He next got down on his knees, dropped flat, crawled under the car. No bomb had been secreted under the chassis. He ran back to the Fireblade.
Pushing it on the opposite side of the road, he found the disturbed gorse where he had left the unconscious body of the fake policeman. The body had gone.
'Probably hitched a ride to as near to Grenville Grange as he could manage,' he said to himself.
He became very active. He wheeled the machine back to a gap in the gorse hedge he had noticed, pushed the machine through to the edge of the quagmire beyond. He gave the Fireblade a hard shove, watched it enter the marsh, the front wheel sinking first, followed by the rest of the machine which disappeared under the evil ooze.
He had taken his windcheater and the Luger out of the pannier before getting rid of the Fireblade. He took off the black leather jacket, hurled it into the quag, then threw the Luger with his gloved hand. The gun vanished in seconds.
He returned to his car, was about to switch on the engine when he heard motorcycles coming from the direction of Studland and towards the ferry. Wishing he'd kept the Luger a little longer, he left the car, crept forward, hid behind a thick bush.
He was just in time to see the stretch limo with tinted windows cruise past, bound for the ferry. A single outrider, clad in black leather like the others, brought up the rear.<
br />
I think Tweed will be interested, Butler was thinking. Mr Big-Wig didn't spend long at the old dark house…
He waited a few minutes, then drove out, turned left for Studland and Wareham way beyond.
'I feel in need of some fresh air,' Tweed had remarked pleasantly to Buchanan when the interview ended.
They were walking up to the square leading to South Street when Buchanan, at the wheel of an unmarked car with Warden alongside him, passed them.
'I think we all coped with that rather well,' Paula mused.
'Certainly he couldn't get a handle on us,' Tweed agreed. 'But he didn't believe one word we'd said. Let's call in at the Black Bear.. .'
There was no sign of Buchanan's car when they crossed South Street. They found Marler leaning against the bar when they entered the hotel.
'This is Ben,' Marler said, introducing the barman, who greeted them cheerfully. 'He's standing in for a friend who's away on holiday. What are you drinking?'
'I need a double Scotch,' said Newman.
'A small glass of white wine, please.' Paula requested.
Tweed had ordered orange squash when he looked back at the doorway and saw Butler, standing in the corridor and beckoning to him. Saying he'd better go to the loo, Tweed joined him outside.
He listened while Butler told him about the motorcade he'd seen returning the way it had come when he'd first spotted it.
Tell Newman on the quiet I'll be back later. I'm on my way to that public phone box. I live in them…'
He was surprised when he dialled the private number at Heathrow of Jim Corcoran, security chief, to find his old friend was in his office.
'Any news about Marchat?' he asked.
'Yes. Good job it's February.'
'Why?'
'Not many passengers. So I had fewer passenger manifests to check. I even found the check-in girl who dealt with him. She remembers him. He seemed nervous.'
'I'm waiting for you to get to the point.'
