The Savage Gorge tac-24

by Colin Forbes

  He never completed his sentence. The door was flung open and Lord Bullerton, dressed in a business suit, burst into the room. He stared at Lance and his voice boomed.

  'You can take off the penguin suit, Lance. This dinner will be between me and Air Tweed. So may I suggest you shove off.'

  'You see how it is,' Lance muttered, stood up and left. At the door he had to wait as Mrs Shipton reap peared. Staring at Lance's dinner jacket, she frowned. He heard what she said as he pushed rudely past her.

  'On Lord Bullerton's instructions I have prepared dinner for two persons.'

  'Is it ready?' demanded Bullerton.

  'Yes. That is, it will be in ten minutes' time.'

  While all this was going on Tweed retrieved the two photos. He slipped them carefully inside, closed the zip. Only then, case under his arm, did he stand up to greet his host.

  'Excuse me, Tweed,' Bullerton said, 'my obsession is chess. I am trying to crack this game. Would you like another drink?'

  Til wait for dinner, thank you.'

  He watched as Bullerton hurried over to a table where a chess game was half-played. Seating himself, he picked up the Queen, turning to Tweed as he fondled the piece. He shook his head.

  'She's the one I'm after. I play against myself. Unless you care to oppose me. Dinner will take longer than Mrs Shipton implied. She won't bring in the food until all the guests have taken their places. Shipton rules.'

  'I prefer to start a fresh game, if you don't mind,' said Tweed, standing up. He extracted the two photos and again placed them upside down on the edge of the chess table.

  'I thought, Lord Bullerton, these might be familiar to you.'

  The effect on his host was even more electrifying than it had been on Lance. Bullerton casually turned them over, bent his large head forward, then jumped up, staggering as though he might fall down. Tweed grabbed him by one arm, had his grip brusquely removed. Bullerton toppled backwards into the arm chair behind him and slumped. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

  'Large Scotch, for God's sake!'

  Tweed darted over to the drinks cupboard, grabbed a glass and a bottle of the most expensive Scotch. He filled the large glass, took it to Bullerton, watched carefully as his host took the glass, swallowed half the contents at one gulp. He waited as Bullerton sat up stiffly, drank the rest.

  'One is Petra,' he mumbled, 'the other is Nancy. Where are they now?'

  'In London.' Tweed paused. 'The news is very bad, I should warn you…'

  'You bastard!' Bullerton roared. 'How long have you had those?'

  'Only a day,' Tweed admitted, 'I was waiting for the right opportunity to tell you – when we were alone. The news is bad,' he repeated.

  'Well, spit it out, man,' Bullerton demanded, some of his normal fire returning.

  'They are both dead,' Tweed said quietly, 'mur dered outside the homes they rented in central London. Worse still, their faces had been badly mutilated by the killer.'

  'Mutilated?' Bullerton pointed to the photos Tweed was collecting to put back inside his case. 'No sign of mutilation there.'

  'The photos have been retouched,' said Tweed, who saw no point in explaining the genius of Hector Humble.

  'Sounds like a serial killer.'

  As he spoke Bullerton bent down to pick up the chess Queen he had knocked off the board when he jumped up. He stroked the piece as he muttered half to himself.

  'She knows I'm after seducing her. Just like I do when I visit certain high-class ladies in Mayfair. They charge the earth. Still much cheaper than the expense of getting married. This Queen seems to get heavier. Ready for my assault. And you're a fake, Tweed. You come up here on a murder investigation but you take your time telling me the victims are my missing daughters.'

  'I have my methods,' Tweed said calmly. 'And I do not believe the killer is a serial murderer…'

  'Obviously you haven't heard that Hartland Trent, living, or lived, off the High Street has been found stabbed to death. Whole district is abuzz with the crime, but the chief investigator hasn't heard about it,' Bullerton sneered. 'An eccentric. The place swarms with them.'

  Tweed was used to the minds of relatives of murder victims wandering all over the place in their shock.

  'Another eccentric, the chief one, is Mrs Grout in the Village. A few years ago a crazy man bought a farm well north of the River Lyne, converted it into a zoo! Had a huge gorilla, a king cobra, a tiger and Lord knows what else. Oh, a crocodile too. I got the correct lot up from London and they closed him down. What helped was the local horsey aristocrats living in that area protested violently, saying one of the creatures in the zoo could escape and kill someone. The owner was venomous, swore vengeance, but sent his stock to Africa and India. Mrs Grout made a meal of it.'

  'How did she do that?'

  'She still tells some crazy story that she saw the zoo owner one moonlit night drive a truck to the edge of the river north of the bridge, open the doors, slide out a chute with the baby crocodile inside and dump it in the river. She's mad.'

  'How long ago did this happen?'

  'About three years, except it's just one of her sto ries.'

  'So by now it would be fully grown,' Tweed remarked.

  'Suppose so, wherever it is in India…'

  The door opened and Mrs Shipton stood there, glaring. Her arms were folded. She barked.

  'If you like cold food you can stay here chattering. It will be served in the dining room within five minutes.'

  Bullerton hauled his bulk out of the armchair as the door was slammed shut. They walked to the dining room, which was tastefully illuminated by a magnificent chandelier that might have come from Versailles. They ate in silence, which suited Tweed, so he could enjoy the excellent dinner. He waited until they were sipping a first-class claret before he put the question.

  'I had wondered whether Neville Guile might be another guest.'

  'Told me he was going to race back to London. That the countryside bored him. Typical view of the average Londoner.'

  'You like him? He seems to have achieved a lot.'

  'Like so many London businessmen he's a crook. But in business you have to deal with all types.'

  'I do know a number of businessmen who are trust worthy,' Tweed corrected him.

  'Then don't count Neville among them.'

  'Do you mind if I ask the nature of your dealings with him?'

  'Sorry, but our negotiations are confidential. I do assure you, Mr Tweed, that it can have nothing to do with these awful murders.' He paused, embar rassed. 'One thing I will tell you. Neville had consumed a lot of brandy at eleven in the morning. I think he let his tongue slip. Told me he was going back to Finden Square to clear up the mess he knew he'd find. Then he was flying off to what he calls his sanc tuary, the island of Noak.' He spelt out the name. 'Sounds like Noah's Ark. It's somewhere not a million miles from the Channel Islands. Not under the juris diction of either Britain or France. When he told me he laughed – that weird giggle which passes for a laugh.'

  'I think it's time I left. Thank you for the most glorious dinner. As good as the Ritz in London,' Tweed said, pushing back his chair.

  'I suppose,' Bullerton remarked as they strolled towards the door, 'as chief investigator you'll be involved in the Trent murder here. With my two eldest daughters as victims the serial killer has moved up to Hobartshire. Not a pleasant thought.'

  'My instinct, experience if you like, tells me all I need is to spot the motive. When I do I'll know who the killer is.'

  FIFTEEN

  The next morning a carefully dressed but nervous Paula tapped the agreed tattoo on Tweed's door. Wearing a sports jacket and grey slacks, he ushered her inside with a smile and a wave of his hand. He immediately noticed her unusually worried expression.

  'Come in. Make yourself at home,' he greeted her cheerfully.

  She sat down in a hard-backed chair, her feet together. She sat very erect, spoke softly.

  'I have something to tell you I don't t
hink you'll like.'

  'A cup of steaming black coffee might help start the day.'

  He poured her a cup and tactfully placed it on a small table next to her chair. He guessed she might have trouble not spilling it as she lifted the cup.

  'I think we ought to have a full breakfast up here. I'll order it,' he said firmly, reaching for the phone.

  'Won't the landlord think it funny I'm in your suite so early?' she ventured.

  'Mr Bowling has been running this hotel for a long time, I'm sure. He'll be quite used to serving breakfasts to men who have spent the night with a lady friend. Par for the course.'

  Over the phone he ordered a huge breakfast for two, to be served in twenty minutes. Tea, more coffee, toast – white and brown (which he knew Paula pre ferred), scrambled eggs for two, crispy bacon, toasted muffins…

  'We'll both be fighting fit after that,' he said, refilling her cup. 'Now, I'll just listen.'

  She told him of the events of the previous night, starting with her driving the Audi from the hotel and parking it inside the hedge overlooking Hobart House. She kept it brief and found herself talking more quickly as Tweed kept nodding his head to show her he was taking it all in. His expression was pleasant, that of the interested listener – until she came to the point where she quoted what Neville Guile had said to his henchman. Use her as a man likes to use a woman.

  His lips tightened. He turned his head away so Paula would not see the cold fury in his eyes. From that moment on he couldn't wait until he met Neville Guile in a quiet place and slowly strangled him.

  He lit a rare cigarette and when he turned to face

  Paula again his expression of listening to every word she said had returned. She concluded with her walking away from the cottage with the crooked chimney back across the bowl to the parked car.

  'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I should never have taken the risk…'

  'Wrong!' he exploded. 'You were right. Haven't I always told every member of the team they must use their initiative? Which is exactly what you did. It may have been pretty grim for you, but you proved you can – and do – think for yourself.'

  'Thank you,' she said quietly.

  'The next problem is to get rid of the body of the fiend who attacked you.'

  'It's already been done. On my way along the corri dor to get here I met Harry. He said the thug's name was Ned Marsh – he found his passport on his body in the cottage. With the help of Archie MacBlade he carried the body back up to Black Gorse Moor, found the tunnel I'd been in and the vertical drop. They dumped the body down the tunnel – it went all the way down. MacBlade said Guile is always checking. When he phones Marsh on his mobile during the night and gets no reply he'll send another thug at once to drive the truck. Haifa ton of rubble will be emptied down the tunnel. The thug who tried to rape and kill me will never be found.'

  'Solves one problem,' Tweed commented.

  'I'm perplexed,' said Paula. 'Nothing links up. Mystery One – Harry tracks Falkirk up here. We follow. Mystery Two – we find Hartland Trent mur dered, his place ransacked. Mystery Three – how does Lord Bullerton fit in? Mystery Four – why is Neville Guile visiting this part of the world? Then, what is happening on Black Gorse Moor with that network of tunnels?'

  'You left out one more,' Tweed remarked. 'Who really hired Falkirk, private detective?'

  'And,' she added, 'I haven't seen Chief Inspector Roadblock for some time.'

  Tweed chuckled. 'That's because I phoned Buchanan and asked him to recall the gentleman to London. His new task? To call at every residence in the Lynton Avenue area to ask if they saw anything. He gets no reply since they're on holiday. He has to persist until he meets them.'

  'Which will take him forever. All those houses.'

  'That's my idea. Can't have him up here messing up the whole case. But our main task remains the same – to identify the murderer.'

  'Any suspects yet?' she coaxed.

  'I think a large part of the motive is Black Gorse Moor.'

  The pleasant maid had cleared the breakfast clutter, but Paula was still puzzled by Tweed's reply. Another factor entered her mind. She looked across to where Tweed was perched on the edge of his bed, studying his notebook.

  'Noak Island. Could that be important? Somewhere remote out in the Atlantic?'

  'All great minds think alike.' He smiled. 'I was just wondering about that myself.'

  'And there's a strange item in the paper. Something about Asiatic pirates who grabbed a big oil tanker, fully laden, about seven months ago.'

  'I spotted that too.'

  Tweed stopped talking as someone rapped on the door.

  He had his Walther behind his back as he unlocked the door. Outside Archie MacBlade stood with Falkirk. MacBlade smiled as he politely put the ques tion.

  'Any chance of our having a confidential chat now?'

  'Perfect timing. I have Paula with me. Come in. Seat yourselves while I listen.'

  MacBlade chose a large couch after hugging Paula, asking how she was, whether she had slept well.

  'Very OK,' she said with a warm smile. 'Slept solidly the whole night through.'

  Falkirk had joined MacBlade on the couch. MacBlade waved a hand at his companion.

  'Think it was time I came clean. I was the one who hired our mutual ally, Falkirk.'

  SIXTEEN

  Tm stunned,' said Paula.

  'Why?' asked Tweed.

  ' I’d never have guessed that in a hundred years,' she exclaimed.

  ' Why?' demanded Tweed.

  'Because,' MacBlade explained, 'I needed someone first-rate to check on Neville Guile, to find out every thing he could about the villain. I could hardly come to you, Tweed – not with you running your own show, as you always do. We've been discussing Guile's secret island, Noak. The mysterious Noak out on the Gulf Stream.'

  'Could be idyllic,' Paula mused. 'Palm trees and coconuts.'

  'Or something grimmer,' said Falkirk, with a warm smile.

  It was the first time she'd seen Falkirk relax. She found she was beginning to like this tough lean-faced man.

  'I need every bit of information you've dug up,' Tweed said very seriously.

  There was another tapping on his door. Again he concealed his Walther behind his back before unlock ing the door. Marler was standing outside with a long cardboard roll tucked under his arm. Tweed lowered his voice.

  'I have Archie MacBlade and Falkirk with me. Paula too. We are beginning to discuss Neville Guile's secret island, Noak.'

  'Which is why I've come to see you. I now know a lot about how to get to the place. There are traps.'

  'You'd better come in and join the party, then.'

  Introductions were swiftly over. Marler laid the cardboard roll on the cleared table they were now gathered round.

  He looked at Tweed for a signal.

  'Do I reveal everything I've discovered?'

  'Everything,' Tweed assured him.

  'This map,' Marler began, 'I obtained from a mariner friend high up in his service. They know of the island's existence but do not know it belongs to Neville Guile. Here goes…'

  From the cardboard roll he extracted a large map, spreading it to flatten it. Paula immediately recognized it as showing the western coast of Brittany, the Channel Islands, a vast stretch of the Atlantic with another island well to the west of the Channel Islands group. The island was circled in red.

  Near the bottom of the large sheet was another map, a detailed outline of Noak. A drawing on this map showed steep cliffs and a section of dotted lines shaped like a triangle with the narrowed apex ending at a gulch. Marler pointed to the dotted lines projecting into the Atlantic.

  'That's the trap,' he explained. 'Guile has sophisti cated radar which picks up any vessel approaching Noak.'

  'Is there a gap covering a landing point invisible to this radar system, maybe caused by the high over hanging cliffs?'

  'Clever girl,' Marler said with an admiring smile. 'That is where we land without
Guile knowing we've arrived. Tricky, but I could manage it.' He looked round the table. 'Presumably the vessel available will be crewed by me and Falkirk?'

  'No,' snapped Tweed. 'Has it ample capacity for more people?'

  'Yes. It's very roomy. Has a small stateroom.'

  'Then it will also be crewed, as you put it, by me, Paula and Harry. We need power in case we come up against guards.'

  'True.' Marler stood up, the map rolled and back in its case. 'I've got things to arrange, consult someone about weapons.' Both Tweed and Paula knew he meant Harry, but was being typically cautious since MacBlade and Falkirk were present. He turned at the door.

  'Timetable? I can be ready within two days, even by tomorrow.'

  'In case of emergency think of tomorrow,' Tweed decided.

  MacBlade and Falkirk left soon after him. Paula waited until they were alone before she voiced her doubts.

  'Aren't we leaving Gunners Gorge before we've checked it out thoroughly?'

  'Yes, we are,' Tweed agreed. 'But Neville Guile is one of a number of strong suspects. I need to find out what he's up to on this mysterious island of Noak. He's rushed off, and my instinct is that he's on his way there.'

  'What's next today, then?'

  'A visit by both of us to Hobart House. I want to interrogate Bullerton's two daughters, Sable and Margot. Girls can be very observant.' He smiled. 'They have been known to listen unseen at closed doors…'

  'I don't like that knife Margot carried concealed in a sheath.'

  'Also,' Tweed continued, 'I'd like to grill Mrs Shipton. Something's not right about her. I asked the landlord where she came from. He said out of the blue, no idea where. A year or two after Myra had her so-called accident and went over the falls.'

  Inside the garage they found a livid Lord Bullerton pacing back and forth. He addressed Tweed abruptly.

  'Would you believe it? My fool of a chauffeur has taken my car to the mechanic way north of the bridge beyond the Gorge. Didn't consult me – just left a note. I'll have his guts for garters!'

  'Where were you going?' Tweed enquired.

  'Just back to Hobart House. But it's one hell of a walk.'