by Colin Forbes
Another of his kills had been an Italian chief of police at the behest of the Mafia. And always he had an unbreakable alibi. He was officially in France every time he carried out a 'commission'. His fees were enormous but he guaranteed results.
Klein studied the Englishman as they approached Rheims. His researches into the Englishman's background had proved difficult. Plenty of rumours through underworld contacts but nothing concrete. Klein didn't know as much about him as he would have liked – but that was a tribute to the man's ability, and he was an independent-minded bastard.
Marler was in his thirties, a slim man of medium height, clean-shaven with a determined jaw. His smooth face was frequently creased in a half-smile which did not reach his brown eyes. His hair was flaxen-coloured, but seen from the back he had a small bald patch over his pink crown. Hence his nickname, The Monk.
He spoke with a public school accent, his voice light in tone. He always appeared calm and under complete self-control. He had proved himself a crack shot at Bisley – Klein knew that much. There had been talk of an embezzlement, which had shut out the world of business to him.
His father – now dead in a road accident – had been a famous racing driver. The nationality of his mother was obscure. He had a flair for speaking foreign languages -which was probably why he had settled in France. He seemed to have no permanent residence, flitting from one country to another.
'He is what they call a soldier of fortune,' a Corsican in Paris had told Klein. 'A man who will do anything for money. He has expensive tastes. He likes expensive women, I hear.'
Klein's careful preliminary investigation before approaching The Monk only told him Marler had a short-term lease on a good apartment in the upper-class Parisian district of Passy. Discreet enquiries revealed he spent very little time there.
The Corsican had provided Klein – for a fee – with a phone number. A girl had answered, had asked a lot of questions. He had been forced to give her his room number at the Georges Cinq. 'He may call you back,' the girl had said and rung off.
Later Marler had called him, instructing him to meet him at a grotty pension called the Bernadotte on the Left Bank. It had been a very clandestine meeting and Klein had choked at the requested fee. Five million francs.
'Take it or leave it,' Marler had told him. 'And I need one million in advance. Cash. Used notes. The usual thing…'
All these thoughts ran through Klein's mind as they passed Rheims in the early hours. He told Marler to make for Sedan next. There had even been an argument as to who would drive. 'I'm not yammering on about the point any longer,' Marler had informed Klein. 'I like to be in control.'
That remark had jarred on Klein. He liked to be in control. And it was already clear Marler was not in the least frightened of him. Klein was a man who liked to reinforce his authority by intimidating members of the team he had recruited.
'It's not Germany, is it?' Marler asked.
'I told you no before…'
'Sometimes,' Marler continued amiably, 'people attempt to trick me. Not a wise procedure, I assure you. Where are we making for?'
'The Ardennes. The Belgian province of Luxembourg.'
'Oh, that's all right. As I told you, I never undertake a commission in any country more than once – which rules out Germany, Italy, Spain, Greece and Egypt. Had the devil of a job hiring a Citroen with a rack fitted on the roof. A practice shoot, you said. Why the rack?'
'You'll see. When the time comes it will be a moving target.'
'We're approaching the Franco-Belgian frontier,' Klein said. 'You have the rifle well concealed?'
'Strapped with tape under the car.'
'You also brought a shovel?'
'Wrapped in a sack inside the boot. I am reputed to be efficient. Here's the border coming up. You might leave me to do the talking,' he snapped in French. They had used the language since their first meeting.
In the dark the headlight beams showed up a striped pole across the road, a small hut alongside it. There were low hedges with fields beyond on either side. Marler pulled up, lowered his window. 'Give me your passport,' he said as a French Customs official plodded towards them with a heavy tread.
'Papers…'
Marler showed a British passport. The official made a dismissive gesture and yawned. He saw Klein's German passport and made the same gesture.
'Why are you going to Belgium?' he asked in a bored tone.
'On holiday,' Marler replied.
'Push off!'
'I think we woke the poor devil up,' Marler commented as he drove on.
'A good hour to cross the border. And our passports are both Common Market. Keep straight ahead…'
The flat character of the countryside they'd passed through changed. Forested hills dropped sheer to the road which wound its way through deep defiles. Klein pointed to a sign-posted side turning.
The road to Bouillon. I leave you at the Hotel Panorama on the way back. A room is reserved in your name. I take this Citroen. Hire yourself another car. You stay in Bouillon until you hear from me – or a man called Hipper.'
'What about my fee – the advance payment?'
'You get that after you've shown me you can shoot.'
It was wild and lonely Ardennes country where they stopped the car. An abandoned stone quarry yawned before them in the dawn light – like a vast amphitheatre with sheer walls on three sides. The ground was scattered with stones and rocks across its sandy surface. Marler stood with Klein in the treacherous light – difficult for aiming. A long way off he heard two sharp reports. Marler jerked up his head.
'Rifle shots.'
'They're hunting boar. Anyone who hears you will assume we are doing the same. Let's get on with it.'
From the boot Klein took the large sack and the shovel. He proceeded to fill the sack with a mixture of sand and small rocks. Marler crawled under the car, removed the adhesive tape, emerged holding a high-powered rifle and a telescopic sight which he attached to the weapon. He wiped the infra-red lens of the sight with a silk handkerchief, pressed the rifle stock into his shoulder and swept the top of the quarry.
Klein perched the sack jammed full of rocks and sand on top of the Citroen. He produced a length of rope, attached it to the neck of the sack. He then secured the sack at both ends, tying the rope to the bars of the rack.
'What's that in aid of?' Marler enquired.
'You climb to the top of the quarry. The left-hand side is the easier route. Get up there as fast as you can – before the light improves. Wave to me when you're ready. I shall then drive this car at speed round the base of this quarry. Your target is the sack, which will be bouncing about. I am taking a risk – I will be behind the wheel…'
'No risk at all,' Marler drawled. 'I get it now. And by the time I get up there the light will be really tricky – how many shots?'
'Would six be all right? We'll see how many you get on target.'
'Anything you say. Let me check that sandbag first.'
He fetched a pair of driving gloves from inside the car and put them on. Placing the rifle gently across the boot, he began punching the sandbag like a boxer. He punched at it from all angles. Then he tossed the gloves back into the car.
'Tighter than a girl's pantyhose. We don't want you delivering the car hire outfit a vehicle with bullet-holes in the roof,' He paused. 'Or in your head. You've got guts, Klein – doing this. I'll give you that.'
Marler walked away and Klein watched his silhouette in the gloom. Carrying the rifle in both hands he went up the steep path like a mountain goat. At the summit he looked down. The dawn was now a weird amber light. Klein stood waiting by the Citroen.
Marler aimed the sight straight at Klein, then adjusted the sight and checked again. He took his time. In the heavy silence which lay over the forest behind he heard a faint sound. The impatient shuffling of Klein's feet. Let the sod wait. He adjusted the sight a fraction, stared into the lens, waved his hand.
He waited while Klein drove the
Citroen three circuits as fast as he could round the floor of the quarry, sending up great clouds of sand. That was going to be a great help. Klein drove deviously, stopping suddenly, skidding, accelerating, following a different course each circuit.
Marler raised his rifle, squinted through the sights, pulled the trigger of the automatic weapon rapidly. Inside the car, above the noise of the engine, Klein heard the thump of the heavy slugs hitting the bouncing sack above him. He swung the Citroen into a vicious turn, skidded sideways, losing control for a few seconds. The thumps continued in swift succession. When he'd counted six he slowed, stopped, waited a moment to show Marler he had stopped, opened the door slowly and got out.
When Marler reached him after slithering down the path there was a pallid glow reflecting off the quarry walls. Klein was using a torch to examine the sack. Marler brushed rock dust off his trousers, held the rifle loosely in his right hand as he spoke.
'Well?'
'Six out of six. Quite remarkable. You are a crack shot.'
'That's why you hired me, wasn't it? A moving target, you said. And presumably I'll be operating from high up – hence the firing position at the top of the quarry. That much I need to know.'
His voice was cold, his last remark a demand. A different voice from anything Klein had heard before.
'Yes, you will be firing from altitude.'
Klein used a pen-knife to slice through the rope – he had no intention of letting Marler see the knife sheathed and strapped to his right leg. Opening the neck of the sack, he emptied the sand and rocks on the ground. Then he held out the sack with six punctured holes and the rope screwed up inside. 'You have the can of petrol?'
'At the back of the boot under a pile of rags.'
'Take this sack to the base of the quarry and burn it. I'll collect the bullets…'
'Burn it yourself.' Marler fetched the can, handed it to him. 'I'll find the bullets. You're not my boss, I'm not your servant.'
Klein tightened his lips, accepted the can and walked to the wall of the quarry. Marler searched the ground, picking up the slugs until he'd found all six. Walking to the fringe of the quarry, he hurled each bullet deep into the undergrowth, varying direction for each throw.
The sack flared in the distance, a brief incandescence of red flame which settled down into a coil of smoke. Marler watched Klein using the shovel to spread sand and stones over the relics, then crawled under the car to attach the telescopic sight with adhesive tape. Klein was looking down at him when he crawled out.
'What are you doing?' he demanded. 'I told you, I'm driving the Citroen back to Paris. You have the papers I need to hand in the vehicle?'
'Waiting for you on the driving seat. The rifle is in the back in full view. You said they hunted boar round here. But it is eighty kilometres back to the turn-off to Bouillon. I checked the odometer. If a patrol car stops us, the rifle is OK. Shooting country. The infra-red sight they might wonder about. I'll remove it when we're near Bouillon. You know, Klein, you must watch your security. And the car was hired in my name. How do you handle that?'
'I say you've been taken ill. If they get their car back and the balance of payment they're happy.'
'Which is more than I'll be until I get my advance – a million francs.'
Klein put on a pair of chamois gloves, reached into his pocket, handed Marler an envelope. 'A bearer bond – for one million. It's as good as cash, easier to carry. Plus something extra for expenses.'
Marler made sure the rifle was securely tucked behind his suitcase on the rear seat, climbed behind the wheel and drove back the way they had come.
'I would like some idea of what you have planned,' he remarked.
'For the money you're getting you should appreciate how much security is involved.' Klein decided it was time he asserted himself. 'And what would you have done if I'd decided that you were not the man I needed and driven off?'
'Oh, simple. I'd have put a bullet through your head.'
23
Tweed sat in the large, high-ceilinged living-room on the first floor of the house in Eaton Square. Lady Windermere had placed him on a low couch while she occupied a Regency high-backed wooden chair, which meant she looked down on him.
'Lara is in some trouble, I presume? Otherwise you wouldn't be bothering me.'
'Why do you presume that?' Tweed asked.
She was a tall thin woman of about fifty, her face was long and thin-lipped, her nose aristocratic, her manner arrogant, her tone that of someone addressing the lower orders. She was smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder.
'Well, is she or isn't she? You must realize this is all a great nuisance. My son, Robin – by my previous marriage – is getting married soon. Can you imagine the number of important things I have to attend to?'
'Supposing I told you Lara could be in some danger?'
'If she's got herself into some silly scrape she'll jolly well have to get herself out of it. At the moment, Mr… Tweed, isn't it?… Robin's marriage takes precedence over everything. He's marrying a most suitable girl who will, in due course, provide a son and heir to carry on the line.'
'I see.' For a moment Tweed was stunned. He had heard of women like this. In certain mannerisms Lady Windermere reminded him of his own wife, now living it up with a Greek shipping magnate in Brazil. 'I don't think I've made myself very clear,' he persisted. 'It's just possible that in all innocence your daughter…"
' Step -daughter. She came with Rolly. She was wished on me…'
'But you knew that when you married your present husband.'
'Mr Tweed, I regard that as a piece of impertinence which I'm not prepared to overlook.'
'I regard it as a fact of life,' Tweed said mildly.
'And innocence has nothing to do with Lara. She goes her own disgusting way, mixing with the wrong sort of people. Is it any wonder she's got herself into trouble. Is she pregnant, by the way? I might as well know.'
'You might as well,' Tweed agreed. 'To the best of my knowledge, she has no problems in that direction. In fact, I have been told she is a very resourceful and independent girl who simply wanted to live her own life. She is, after all, over the age of consent. Now can we get down to brass tacks? When did you last see her? Did she give any indication that she might be going abroad? Perhaps to look for a job?'
'Am I being interrogated? If so, shouldn't I have my lawyer present?'
'Not with Special Branch,' Tweed said grimly. 'I need some lead about her present activities. I may even be able to protect her…'
'Protect her! My God, you'll have your work cut out…'
'Why?' Tweed flashed back.
'Because she's one of these so-called rebels…'
'We have no information suggesting she is mixed up with anything remotely political.'
'Is there going to be publicity about this?' she demanded. That simply isn't on – not with the wedding coming up.'
'I can't keep anything quiet unless you stop thinking about this wedding for five minutes and try and help me. Has she any particular friend she might have gone to abroad – man or woman?'
'Oh, I'm sure it would be a man…'
'Lady Windermere, I'm asking you to be specific – to answer my questions. If you won't, we'll have to go about things in a quite different way – which could involve widespread publicity.'
'Is that a threat?'
'Another fact of life. If you want someone present while we talk why not ask your husband to be here? Preferably today.'
'Oh, he wouldn't help at all. Rolly's far too wrapped up in his merchant bank. In any case, he's also too soft with Lara. Ask your questions.'
Too soft? Lara was Roland Seagrave's daughter, Tweed thought. Perhaps he should have gone straight to him. No, he'd come to find out Lady Windermere's attitude.
'Where is Lara now?' she asked.
'Somewhere in France,' Tweed replied vaguely. 'Now, had she any particular friend, close friend, she might have gone to see?'
'She wa
s positively infatuated with some foreigner. I never knew his name, anything about him – except he could have been a diplomat. She met him at a party, I gather. And she did get phone calls from abroad. I answered one call and the man at the other end wouldn't identify himself. Just insisted on speaking to Lara.'
'Any photographs? Of Lara with this man?'
'No, I've looked…' She paused, then spoke aggressively. 'I did feel it was my duty to try and find out what she was up to.'
Which meant, Tweed thought, you went through her things while she was away. Sheer curiosity. Maybe something even worse – in the hope of finding pictures which would discredit Lara with her father.
'What jobs, if any, did she take abroad? She's good at languages, I understand.'
'Yes. And that's not always a good thing. It means she can strike up acquaintances with the wrong types. She had one job in Geneva two years ago. With one of the UN outfits, I think.'
'Could you be more specific? Which outfit?'
'No, I couldn't! I lead far too busy a life to keep an eye on an errant step-daughter. She moved on to another post in Luxembourg City – again with some UN organization. I do think that's it. No, just a minute, she was also in Paris afterwards. Don't ask me with whom. Now, you said Lara was in some sort of trouble…'
'No, Lady Windermere – you asked me if she was. I said she might just be in danger.'
'She'll squirm her way out of it. Now, if that is all?'
'For the moment.' Tweed stood up. 'I may have to come back if the situation develops the wrong way…'
'I'm relying on you to see it doesn't. She's a British citizen, you are Special Branch.'
'I'll do my best. No guarantees…'
'And no publicity of any kind.'
'Again, no guarantees…'
She fired her last shot. 'You must realize Lara is the most self-centred person. She thinks only of what she wants and gives no consideration whatsoever to other people's feelings.'
