by Colin Forbes
That the cigar box? May I see?'
'Over to you. See what you make of the contents. I've only had time to skip through them. I find the sending of that sinister.'
'Any note, letter, with it?'
'No. Monica saw him in Bond Street with that girl whose photo you're looking at.'
'When was that?' Marler asked.
Three weeks ago. The day before he flew to Athens, I assume.'
' You assume? ' Marler raised an eyebrow. These photos are a mix. Some obviously in Greece, some in this country. Don't know where.'
'I do,' said Tweed. That one of the outside of The Royal Oak Inn. I recognize it. Winsford. A village on Exmoor. So why do we have Somerset and Greece? Doesn't make sense.'
'Unless he hasn't spent his whole three weeks in Greece. The day he was seen by Monica he could have taken off for Exmoor. Gone on to Greece later. Suggests something the Greek filly told him led him to Somerset. Something he found there led him to Greece. A regular bloodhound, our Harry. Picks up a scent and won't let go.'
The timing,' Monica agreed, 'suggests it could have been something the Greek girl told him sent him haring off to Somerset.'
'I wonder what,' muttered Tweed, sifting through the non-Greek pictures. This looks like Watchet, a tiny port on the Bristol Channel. One of the front, another of the harbour. I remember that line of lampposts along the front with the small hill at the eastern edge of the harbour. Dunster High Street, not a doubt. The front entrance to the Luttrell Arms, leading hotel in Dunster. Another of a Tudor-style mansion behind a stone wall. Familiar. Near the Doone Valley if I remember right.'
Marler had emptied the cigar box and was fiddling with the base of its interior. He raised a thin sheet of wood pressed down on the base, extracted a folded sheet of paper.
'Seen this?' he enquired. The scene widens. Take a shufti.'
Tweed studied the opened sheet. Harry's distinctive writing. MOD. Brigadier Willie Davies. Ministry of Defence. Harry had visited the place, presumably before he flew to Greece, maybe even before he'd driven down to Somerset. There were two more words written on the sheet of paper. Somerset Levels.
Tweed felt a prickling of the hairs at the back of his neck, an unreasoned sense of foreboding. He became aware that Marler and Monica were watching him.
'Something's wrong,' said Monica.
'I hope not.' He passed the sheet to her. 'I don't think we've told you yet, Marler, that Brigadier Davies is our most friendly contact at the Ministry of Defence. He's also a member of the same club as Harry. They were close.'
'Chums, you mean?' Marler enquired. 'As well as a professional relationship? This business is getting a bit weird. So many strands. And what the deuce is – are – the Somerset Levels?'
'One of the most benighted and lonely spots in England. The area between Taunton and Glastonbury where they dig peat. In the time of Charles the First the sea used to flood in. Now they have constructed waterways – they look like canals. It is like a bleak marshland. I don't understand any of this – too many strands, as you said.'
He stood up and walked over to the window, it had stopped raining. Now they had May sunshine. The pavements were drying out, leaving damp patches. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He was, Monica knew, on the verge of taking a decision.
'I want Harry recalled from Greece immediately. Isn't his deputy for Greece, Patterson, at the British Embassy?'
'Yes,' said Monica promptly. 'Harry appointed him a couple of months ago. Patterson speaks Greek and has travelled widely in the archipelago. You're assuming Harry contacted him after he reached Athens.'
'Which he probably didn't,' Marler commented. 'Running his own investigation unofficially, he'd play it close to the chest. Why the MOD? Or again was it something the Greek girl told him? Incidentally, Monica, what made you so sure she was Greek?'
'When he stopped me he said something in a foreign language. She looked annoyed. Then Harry said, 'The Greeks always have a word for it.' Looking back, I almost think he was sending me a signal.'
'Fair do's,' Marler agreed. 'She is Greek.'
'And now,' Tweed said impatiently as he returned to his swivel chair, 'I want that call made to Athens recalling Harry. A direct order. He's to return instantly, the moment they locate him.'
Monica was reaching for her phone when it began to ring as a raven-haired girl with good bone structure came into the office. Marler jumped up, grinned, offered Paula Grey, Tweed's assistant, his chair. He spread his hands, adopted a theatrical pose.
'Lothario offers you his comfortable seat. How is it you look more ravishing every time I see you?'
'Flannel,' rapped back Paula. 'You think I haven't heard all about your women?'
She was crossing her legs when she stiffened. She was looking at Monica who had been talking on the phone. In a broken voice Monica nodded to Tweed to lift his receiver.
'Athens on the line… Larry Patterson for you.'
Tweed grabbed up his receiver. It became very silent and still in the office. They watched Tweed whose expression had become poker-faced. In a quiet controlled voice he asked several terse questions, said, 'Yes, of course,' five times, thanked Patterson for calling and replaced the receiver. Leaning across his desk, he clasped his hands, gazed at them and spoke in a monotone.
'There is no easy way to break this type of news. Harry Masterson is dead. He was found today at the base of some cliff called Cape Sounion. I gather it is some distance southeast of Athens. The cliff is very sheer and is three hundred feet high. They will be flying the body home.'
'Oh dear God, no! Not Harry
It was Monica who burst out like a stricken animal. Her eyes filled with tears. Paula jumped up, put an arm round her and helped her to her feet and out of the room. The silence was oppressive after the click of the closing door.
'Apparently, according to Patterson, he must have slithered over the edge early in the morning,' Tweed continued. 'About nine o'clock a coastguard launch patrolling the area on the lookout for drug smugglers spotted the body on some rocks at the edge of the sea.'
'Balls!' said Marler, his tone harsh. 'Which is what Harry would have said if they'd found me there. I know the area.'
'I'm listening,' said Tweed in the same monotone, twiddling a pencil between his fingers.
'Cape Sounion is about a two-hour drive along the coast road from Athens. It's the southernmost tip of Greece at that point. Perched on the summit of the Cape is the Temple of Poseidon. It's a lonely spot when the tourists aren't there. Beyond the temple the ground is covered with stubby grass which slopes gently towards the brink. You can easily see when you're coming to the end of everything.'
'So?' pressed Tweed.
'Harry had all his marbles – more than most of us. The idea that he slipped over the edge is fatuous.'
'So?' Tweed repeated.
'Harry was murdered. Absolutely no doubt about it. And I would like to know what the hell we are going to do about it.'
2
Action this day. A favourite maxim of Tweed's, borrowed from Winston Churchill.
Tweed had called for the afternoon what he termed a 'war conference'. Inside what Howard, Tweed's chief, insisted on calling the 'boardroom', six people were gathered round a large oblong table.
Like antagonists, Howard was seated at one end of the table, facing Tweed, who occupied the other end. Also present were Paula Grey, sitting on Tweed's right, notebook at the ready. Marler sat next to Bob Newman, foreign correspondent and close confidant of Tweed. Pete Nield, experienced agent, sat opposite Marler and Newman. Already the atmosphere reeked with tension and disagreement.
'Aren't we jumping to a lot of conclusions rather early in the game regarding this dreadful tragedy?' suggested Howard in his slow pontificating voice.
'It's not a game,' Tweed snapped. 'And Masterson's death does not sound like an accident.'
'Hold hard a jiffy…' Howard, six feet tall, plump-faced and perfectly tailored in a Chester Ba
rrie navy blue suit, shot his cuffs to expose the gold links.
Oh God, thought Tweed, why did he have to turn up unexpectedly and attend this meeting? He stared hard at Howard as he spoke.
'Well, let's get on with it.'
'I was going to make the point that Patterson is already in place in Athens. He could take a look-see, send us a report. Oh, nothing personal, of course, but why is Mr Newman honouring us with his presence?'
'Because I asked him to. Because he knows Greece. Because he speaks Greek fluently and is flying out there with Marler.'
'Not necessary,' Marler interjected in his clipped tone. 'You know I work on my own…'
There was a heavy silence. Tweed kept the silence going while he deliberately arranged the pile of photos in front of him. Newman, in his early forties, well-built, cleanshaven, with thick sandy hair and a strong face, sat watching Tweed with a droll expression.
'I have to say,' Howard continued eventually, 'that I really don't see how Newman, able though he might be, fits in with such an assignment.'
Tweed launched his attack. 'He's fully vetted, as you well know. Patterson has only been in Athens for a short time. Let's get a few opinions.' He addressed Newman. 'Bob, you knew Harry Masterson. Can you see him stumbling off the edge of a cliff?'
'He was sharp as a fox. But I would like to collect a few more facts in Greece. Facts are what I go by.'
'Marler?' Tweed asked.
'So unlikely the idea is ridiculous.'
'Paula?'
'I heard he once left a party half-smashed and walked down the middle of Walton Street balancing a bottle of champagne on his head. The bottle stayed there. Surefooted as the proverbial goat. Not a chance.'
'Pete?'
'Never in a million years.'
'Are you convinced?' Tweed asked Howard. 'If it was murder and we don't act fast the Prime Minister will call us to account.'
'I don't like blackmail,' Howard replied stiffly.
'Who does? You haven't answered the question.'
'Well,' Howard began, his manner breezy, 'first he's a fox, then he's a goat…'
'I don't find that the least bit amusing,' Tweed snapped.
'In that case, what do you propose?' Howard's well-fed face was flushed with annoyance. 'And I still maintain Marler could go on his own. Newman is surplus to requirements – I do realize he's rendered valuable service in the past…'
'Very generous of you,' Tweed interjected. The trouble was Howard realized Newman was wealthier than he would ever be. The foreign correspondent had made a fortune from his best-selling book, Kruger: The Computer That Failed. Tweed spoke decisively.
'Marler and Newman will travel to Greece together. Masterson went alone – and see what happened to him.' He glanced at Paula but she was already recording his instructions.
'Marler's deputy, Harris, can take over the German sector in his absence. Agreed, Marler?' He went on as Marler nodded. 'The investigation covers two very different areas. Greece. Dealt with. Newman reports back to me over Patterson's scrambler phone at the Athens Embassy.'
'Why not Marler?' Howard bleated.
Tweed, in full cry, ignored the interruption. 'I shall drive with Paula to Exmoor and check that area. Pete Nield will come with us in a separate car. He will appear not to know us. He will come armed.'
'Why?' demanded Howard.
'Because I don't know what we're walking into. One man has already been murdered.'
'That has yet to be proved,' Howard objected.
'Everyone I asked believes that. I have an open mind but I'm taking no chances. We start tomorrow – before the scent goes cold. The contents of this cigar box Harry posted me will be checked by our experts in the Engine Room in the basement. I want someone to visit Harry's country cottage in Sussex. What was it called?'
'Clematis Cottage, near Apfield,' said Paula, continuing her writing.
'I will contact Jim Corcoran of Airport Security at Heathrow. He'll check the passenger manifests of all flights to Greece over the past three weeks.' Tweed looked briefly at Howard who had lapsed into silence. 'If we can find which flight Masterson used we may find the name of that Greek girl Monica saw him with in Bond Street.' He turned to Paula. 'How is Monica?'
'Harry Butler took her home. He'll pull her round. Should he go down to check Clematis Cottage?'
'Good idea. And tell him to look at a power cruiser moored at a landing stage a few hundred yards south of the cottage. He turns off to the right along the first track.'
'Is that the lot?' Howard enquired with a hint of sarcasm.
'No. We need photos of Harry Masterson run off by the Engine Room urgently this evening. Newman and Marler will need them when they're tracking his movements in Greece. And I want careful blow-ups of the photo of the Greek girl at Zea. Some for Newman and Marler, some for me to take to Somerset.'
'I think I'm going.' Howard stood up. 'I do have other work calling for my attention. I can't rubber-stamp all this in a memo.. .'
'So you'll have a little extra time for that other work calling for your attention.' Tweed smiled. 'Thank you for your cooperation and attendance.'
Howard withdrew, closing the door behind him as though it were made of glass. Round the table there was a sense of relief.
'I have held back two intriguing points.' Tweed told them. 'Harry made a reference to a friend at court at the Ministry of Defence. I hope to visit him before you leave tonight. I can't imagine why Harry went there.'
'And the other point?' asked Marler
'Endstation.' Tweed looked round the table. 'Like a clue to a crossword puzzle. Mean anything? Suggest anything? The word is written – in Harry's writing – on the back of a British postcard. Just that one word. Endstation.'
'Sounds like Cockfosters, the last station on the Piccadilly Underground,' Paula suggested.
'Which doesn't link up with Exmoor – or Greece.'
The fact that he wrote it on a British postcard points to a connection with Somerset,' Newman remarked. 'Harry liked little tricks like that. And he may well have had in mind that cigar box could have been intercepted.'
'So?' enquired Nield.
'He'd write any clue in code. Some puzzle he'd hope Tweed could unravel.'
'Puzzle is the word for what he sent me,' Tweed commented. 'Paula, book tickets for Marler and Newman to fly to Athens tomorrow…'
'I've already made a note to do just that…'
'But no one moves anywhere, leaves London, until I've seen Brigadier Willie Davies. We need to know why Harry went to the Ministry of Defence.'
Escorted by a male receptionist, Tweed walked down the endless corridor past doors carrying the names of military officers. He clutched in his hand the pass he would have to surrender before being let out of the MOD.
Brigadier Davies, a tall red-faced man with lapel tabs of the same colour, rose from behind his desk as Tweed entered and the door closed behind him. They shook hands.
'Long time no see,' Davies remarked in his crisp staccato voice. 'Take a pew. Long time,' he repeated, sitting down again, 'then we have a queue from your outfit.'
'Harry Masterson, you mean?'
'The great man himself.' Davies tugged at his ginger moustache, ran a hand over thinning hair of the same colour. 'But since you authorized the interview you'll know all about it. Always good for a laugh, Harry. Say anything outrageous.'
'You said I authorized the interview?'
'Course you did.' Davies pushed a sheet of paper with typing across the desk. Tweed glanced at it. A printed heading. General and Cumbria Assurance Company – the cover name for the SIS at Park Crescent. The letter was brief.
Dear Willie – If you could give Harry your cooperation re this one I'd be greatly indebted. At the bottom was Tweed's signature. Forged. Typical of Harry, Tweed thought nostalgically. Break every rule in the book to get what he was after.
'A lot's been happening. My memory must be going.' He phrased the next words carefully. 'The trouble is he too
k off on a plane without leaving me a report. Just caught his flight after leaving you, I gather. Could you bring me up to date? What he asked, what you told him?'
'Weird case. Going back over forty years.' Davies stood up, extracted a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked a green steel cabinet. 'Took me a while to locate the file for Harry.' He grinned as he pulled out a blue file with a red tab attached and handed it to Tweed. 'Still classified.'
Tweed left the file unopened on the desk. The typed inscription on the front in faded letters carried a brief message. Commando raid on Siros Island, Greece, February, 1944.
It you'd bear with me, Willie, I went off abroad as soon us I'd provided the authorization,' he lied glibly. 'It would help if you could tell me what Harry asked you. I'm not sure exactly how much he knew about this business.'
'Oh, he had his facts all lined up.' Davies clasped his hands behind his long neck. 'I'd offer you coffee but why poison a friend? Harry said he first needed details of that four-man commando raid on Siros in February 1944. I expect you know Siros is a large island in the Cyclades, a strategic stepping-stone to Piraeus, the port of Athens. Couriers passed through Siros from Cairo on their way to the mainland to contact the Greek Resistance. Actually, the Resistance was active on the island. German-occupied, of course. And the HO of the German commander of the Cyclades group. A General Hugo Geiger. All this came from Harry before he looked at that file. And a bit more. I wondered how he'd come about the information.'
'Tell me about the bit more.'
'A four-man commando team made the raid. From Special Operations Executive. Commanded by a Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore. Had with him a Captain Robson, a CSM called Kearns, and the Greek.'
The Greek?'
'You didn't know about him? Chap called Andreas Gavalas. He had got out in a motorized caique, reached Cairo months before. The idea was he knew Siros well. The Resistance lot, by the way, were the Republican crowd EDES. As opposed to ELAS, the Commie faction. Barry-more was taking a fortune in diamonds to hand over to a courier from Athens. Last time Cairo financed them. Turned their cooperation completely to ELAS shortly afterwards. Word was ELAS were doing the real fighting out there against Jerry, even though they were Communists.'
