by Colin Forbes
'Monica.' said Tweed, 'after Newman phoned us from Cornwall did you get in touch with Jim Corcoran at Heathrow about Grenville and Maurice Prendergast?'
'Yes, I did. He's promised to call me back. And I called the hotel where Linda Standish was staying.'
'Was?'
"That's what I said. They told me she had checked out and left no forwarding address.'
'I see. I'm calling Corcoran at Heathrow.'
He got the Security Chief's special number himself. Jim Corcoran answered the phone immediately.
Tweed here.'
'Just about to call Monica. Tried British Airways first and struck gold. Told them it was part of an inquiry into a drug ring, heaven help me. Colonel Arbuthnot Grenville is booked to travel First Class on Flight BA 287 to San Francisco. Departs here 1330. Arrives San Francisco 1625, local time, of course. Maurice Prendergast is booked on the same flight - but Club Class. You owe me.'
'I suppose you'd go mad if I asked you to check on a Linda Standish? She might just be aboard the same flight.'
'Stark raving mad. Why do I do these things for you?'
'Because I do things for you from time to time, Jim.'
'I'll come back to you. No, can you hang on a few minutes? I may be able to check - Linda Standish, you said? - that over the phone...'
During the few minutes he had to wait Tweed put his hand over the phone, told Paula and Monica what he had found out, then Corcoran was back on the line.
'Linda Standish is on the same flight. Club Class. She made the reservation by phone this morning and they just managed to fit her in aboard the plane. Tweed, could you give me a breather now? The airport is buzzing at this time of the year.'
'I'll do my very best. And thank you so much.'
'It was nothing. I am joking...'
Tweed put down the phone, told them what he had just heard. Paula was the first to react.
'Isn't it strange they're all on the same flight?'
'It's strange that they're all in such a hurry to reach California. A pattern is building up. It's only recently that Moloch flew back to the same place. A cauldron is bubbling over there.'
'A cauldron?' Paula queried.
"There are many cauldrons seething in the world today but this one is a monster...'
16
"The body of Julia Sanchez, daughter of that Philadelphia millionaire I told you about, has been found. Garrotted. Head nearly severed from the body. Guy who did it smeared his trademark on her body in her own blood. Letters AC.' said Cord Dillon.
'Sounds ugly,' Tweed replied.
The call from the Deputy Director of the CIA had come in the middle of the night. Tweed had again been studying Ethan Benyon's map - comparing it with a detailed map of California.
'So now we've discovered three of Moloch's missing girl friends.' the American went on. 'We only have to find another garrotted and we know we have a serial killer on our hands.'
'AC.' Tweed repeated. 'The Accountant?'
'I'd bet money on it.'
'But didn't Sanchez disappear a while ago? How is the body so well preserved that you have all this data?'
'It was hidden in an alcove in an abandoned mercury mine not too far from Big Sur. It's ice cold down there -like a huge refrigerator. So the body was sufficiently intact to get the information I've given you.'
'There's a curious inconsistency, Cord. Two of the girl friends, Cheryl and Julie Standish, were washed ashore here and in California. Neither was garrotted.'
'I understand the Venetia was offshore when both incidents took place. Would the murderer have garrotted them?'
'I suppose not. No, you've got a point.'
'Other people who stood in Moloch's way have been found garrotted - always with the trademark AC painted on their bodies in their own blood. I wish to God we could trace The Accountant. He uses wire to kill his victims - probably with a wooden handle at either end. Maybe he uses the handles afterwards to mark his victims with their own blood.'
'Sounds like a sadist as well as a killer.'
'I agree.' the American said. 'We're searching all the old mercury mines in that area - that is, the local police are. I'll keep you informed.'
'Whoever it is must be attractive to women.' Tweed commented. "That's the only way he could get them to go with him to a quiet place where he can commit his murders.'
'Don't know why that point didn't occur to me. Might give us a vague lead.'
'Check out Moloch's accountant, Byron Landis,' Tweed suggested.
'A bit obvious, I'd say.'
'A clever man might use the obvious. Keep in touch. Thanks for calling...'
Tweed told Paula and Monica what he had heard. He had just finished when Newman came into the office. Tweed stared at him.
'You were supposed to get some sleep.'
'I've had enough. I didn't want to lose touch with what's going on.'
Tweed repeated what he had just told Paula and Monica. Paula was gazing at-Newman, who was wearing a smart grey pin-striped suit. He was also freshly shaved.
'So the bodies are beginning to come to light.' Newman observed grimly.
'How did you enjoy your meeting at the Lanesborough with Vanity?' Paula asked.
'I enjoyed it. She was great fun - a first-rate companion. Dressed to kill.'
'An unfortunate phrase,' Tweed remarked.
'Why? All right - in view of what you've told me about this Julia Sanchez, I suppose it was. Still, there's something odd. I couldn't get her address out of her. She said she was changing hotels and would call me at my flat when she got settled in. I didn't go for that.'
'Anything else odd about her, Bob?' Paula asked, watching him closely.
'She asked me about the article I'm researching. Told her this story to explain why I was leaving Cornwall suddenly - I said it was an expose on one of the world's richest men. She went quiet and then changed the subject.'
'She's VB's personal assistant.' Tweed said quietly.
'Now he tells me!' He waved a hand at the others. Tweed is still playing it close to the chest...'
'I thought you'd find out more if you didn't know who she was.' Tweed explained.
"Thanks. Well, I guessed it could be him. A big business man who travels the world, she once described him as. She goes with him almost everywhere. Otherwise I got nothing out of her.'
Paula was relieved. She could tell Newman was fond of Vanity, but his brain was still moving in high gear.
Tweed then told Newman about Maurice, Grenville, and Linda Standish.
'A mysterious woman.' he remarked as he concluded.
'What do you think she's up to?' Newman asked. 'Strange she should just walk out on you - then catch the same flight as those two. What's she up to?' he repeated.
'I think her search for the killer of her sisters is genuine. But she also has some other secret motive. I'm worried about her.'
'Why?'
'She's obsessed in her determination to track down the killer. She might take one risk too many.'
'She sounds like a professional.' Paula remarked.
'But there's an emotional element involved. It can muddle the judgement. Call it a sixth sense.'
'I've found out something about her, as you suggested.' Monica broke in. 'She lives in an apartment on Junipero Street, Carmel. Not too far from a police station. It's difficult to find - inside a small
courtyard.'
She handed him a card with Standish's address. Tweed took out his map of Carmel from a drawer. He studied it, put the card in his wallet.
'I know that area. How did you get that information?
All I got from her was her office address. She palmed it to me when we shook hands. Very careful person, Linda Standish.'
'I called the big private investigation agency in San Francisco we've used before. The man I spoke to knew about her. I imagine that outfit knows every agency in the city.'
'Tell me something.' Newman said as Marler walked in. 'As I arrived I saw
Harry Butler's car parked outside. What's going on?'
'I recalled Butler and Nield so I have everyone here close at hand. We're all going to California. I'm waiting for a signal.'
'What signal?' Paula asked.
'I don't know - but I will when I get it.'
'Don't try to push Tweed.' Marler drawled. 'My guess is we're due to depart soon.'
"Then maybe you'd all make sure you have your bags packed for a journey.' Tweed ordered. 'A warm weather climate...'
Luis Martinez, guard master at Black Ridge, had flown to London, as ordered. After leaving his suitcase, filled with old clothes bought second hand, at a hotel near the BBC, he went back to his hired car. He drove at once to a position from where he could watch Park Crescent.
He wasn't sure of the house he should watch but that did not bother him. He had all his equipment on the seat beside him. A Panama hat, which fitted in with the hot weather, a grey beret, photos of Robert Newman obtained from a picture library in San Francisco - and a small pair of field glasses. At the moment he wore the Panama hat, a T-shirt and a pair of denims.
His orders were precise, given to him before he had left Black Ridge.
'Here's a map of London. Fly there at once. Park Crescent is marked with a cross. We don't know which house the SIS is located in so watch them all. Here are pictures of the foreign correspondent, Robert Newman. He's the only one we know who is mixed up in this dangerous outfit. Watch for Newman to come out with a bag. I think he'll be flying over here soon. Track him to the airport, find out which flight he's coming on. Phone the flight details to me here. Then come back...'
A five foot six man with a tanned skin, Martinez was in his thirties. His strong face was long and lean and he sported a neat black moustache, matching the colour of his hair. Attractive to a certain type of woman, he smiled a lot, showing perfect white teeth. He had a cruel mouth.
Raising the field glasses, he checked a man leaving one of the buildings curving round the crescent. Nothing like Newman. He settled down to wait. He was a patient man and planned to change not only his clothes every day, but also his hired car, complaining the previous one was faulty.
When Linda Standish alighted from her flight at San Francisco International, had passed quickly through Immigration and Customs, she found the car she had hired waiting for her. She drove down the coast road, relieved to be back in California with its wonderful scenery. Before leaving the airport she had phoned Moloch to warn him she was coming.
It was a two-hour drive to Monterey but she had slept on the plane to counter jet lag. She passed through Monterey and Carmel and continued along Highway One. It was dark now and, leaving Carmel behind, lights from isolated houses on the steep hillsides to her left glittered like glowing eyes.
Near Big Sur Linda Standish pressed the horn five times and the electronically operated gates opened. She drove on up an endless steep drive to Black Ridge. Arriving, she was shown in by Joel Brand to the vast palatial room overlooking the ocean where Moloch received visitors. As Brand left Moloch came into the room, sat down on a leather couch opposite her.
'Yes?' he said.
'I met an insurance man called TweedRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'
'You met Tweed?' he interjected in surprise.
'Yes. Scotland Yard advised me to see him at Brown's Hotel.'
'Describe him.'
'I'll do my best. It's difficult to give you a picture. He's rather ordinary - or looks so, until you talk to him. I'd say he has a first-class brain...'
She did her best but Moloch found her description of Tweed vague. He asked her to do better but she explained again he wasn't a man you'd easily notice.
'A person you wouldn't easily notice,' he repeated. 'He sounds like a masculine version of yourself, if you don't mind my saying so.'
She did mind, but remarked that it helped in the job she had. Moloch stared at Joel, who was still standing in the room. He had returned after giving orders to the guards.
'I'll call you when I want you.' He turned his attention back to Standish.
Tell me about your conversation with Tweed.'
He listened carefully. She had total recall and repeated every word of what had been said between herself and Tweed. The only part she left out was that she'd told Tweed that Moloch had trained as an accountant before coming to the States.
'I hope you don't mind my telling him about your relationships with Cheryl and Julie.' she said nearing the end of her report. 'But as one of my sisters was murdered off Cornwall and Tweed is in BritainRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'
'Don't mind at all.' Moloch broke in. 'I'm as anxious as you are to find and punish the killer.'
'Were you on board the Venetia at any time while it was anchored off Falmouth?' she asked suddenly.
'A strange question.' he responded with a bleak smile.
'I only asked you.' she went on hastily, 'because if you had been you could have told me who else was on board when my sister was murdered.'
'I take your point. I wish I could help you, but I can't. You said Tweed gave you a card with his particulars. I'd like to see that, please.'
She produced the card from her shoulder bag. Moloch looked at the front. Chief Claims Investigator. General & Cumbria Assurance. No address. Turning the card over he memorized the phone number, handed the card back to her.
'You said that he advised you if you wanted to contact him to ask for Monica if he was out. Who do you think this Monica is?'
'I suppose she serves the same role to him as Vanity Richmond does for you.'
He stared at her. She gazed back without a flicker of her eyes. He wondered if she had implied that Vanity was his mistress, in which case she was wrong. He decided she had made no such suggestion.
'So the visit to London was worth while.' he said calmly.
'I'd say it sure was. Now we know we have the police on both sides of the Atlantic working for us. I spoke to Chief Inspector Buchanan over the phone - he sounds high-ranking. And he took the trouble to put me on to Tweed who, I guess, works closely with him. That's all for the moment.'
"Thank you. Here's a percentage of the fee I promised.'
He handed her an envelope containing the money in hundred-dollar bills, stood up and walked out.
Joel reappeared to let her out. Contrasting with his normal outfit of a T-shirt and denims, he wore a smart business suit, a clean shirt and an expensive silk tie. He took hold of her arm.
'I know you don't like me ...'
'I've never said or indicated that.'
'OK. But just remember this. Working for VB is no fun. It's a tough job I hold. I'll leave you here - the automatic front door is unlocked and so are the main gates. Drive carefully.'
Linda was off balance. She had never seen this side of Joel Brand. In a daze she continued down the long hall and Byron Landis hurried to catch up with her. He was also well-dressed, carrying an overcoat. He smiled as he came beside her and for the first time since she'd met him he struck her as pleasant, almost attractive.
'Excuse me, Linda,' he said as they continued towards the front door, 'but if you're driving back to Carmel could you take me there? My car has broken down.'
'Of course I could,' she said, after a brief hesitation.
'He just wants to save gas,' Joel's voice echoed down the hall.
She glanced over her shoulder. Brand was standing in the hall some distance back and had obviously heard every word.
'Don't judge everyone by yourself, Joel,' she joked.
Brand grinned, disappeared through a doorway. Outside the huge front door she unlocked her car, invited Landis to sit in the front passenger seat. The accountant had not taken kindly to Joel's remark - she could tell this from his stiff expression.
He soon mellowed as she drove them along the coast road, swinging round the bends with practised ease and as he began talking he became surprisingly amiable.
"There are ten thousand dollars in that envelope VB gave you. Ten per cent of the total payment if
you crack the case. Must be difficult for you - trying to find out who killed your own sisters. I don't think VB should have given you the job.'
'Why not, Mr Landis?'
'Byron, please. Because there's too much emotional involvement for you. Let's talk about something else.'
'OK.'
'I need some relaxation from studying figures all day long. Some accountants say the figures talk to them. They don't say one damned thing to me. Think I chose the wrong profession. A lot of people do that. But the job pays well, so I'm stuck with it. No complaints.'
'You're married?' she enquired.
'I was. She took off with a millionaire. Wasn't just the money. He could make her laugh, amuse her. Still, I guess the money also helped. I'm not complaining. She wanted the high life, something I couldn't give her. I'm a loser. I accept that fact.'
'No, you're not, Byron.'
'I'm not a winner. That's for sure.'
'You're in the middle,' she told him. 'Not a bad place to be.'
They chatted for the rest of the drive, Byron cracked a few jokes which made her chuckle. She dropped him in the middle of Carmel.
'Have fun, Byron.' she called out.
'I intend to c'
Standish drove round the corner, parked. Locking her car, she hurried back to the courtyard Landis had disappeared into. Before leaving her car she had put on sunglasses, even though it was dark. She had also changed her green windcheater to a grey one she always kept in the car.
The transformation in her appearance was startling. The courtyard, one of many such maze-like areas in Carmel, was illuminated by old-fashioned lanterns. She walked across the cobbles, checking the apartments above the shops, all closed. No lights anywhere. Puzzled, she moved deeper into the yard and along a narrow alley.
She could hear modern dance music and light flooded out of a doorway at the end of the alley. Over it a flashing sign proclaimed El Soro's. Could Byron have possibly gone to visit a night club? she wondered. Paying the entrance fee, she wandered in, sat down on a chair behind other rows of chairs occupied by young and middle-aged couples. Often a middle-aged man sat by the side of a teenage girl. Then she stared.
