by Colin Forbes
'You must have seen something of the world,' Newman commented to Ralston who was pouring a fresh whisky. He picked up a silver cup inscribed with wording. 'Your unit?'
'Seventh Highlanders. Best regiment in the Army. The times we had in India, Egypt and Italy.' Ralston gazed into the distance. 'Seems an age ago. Now we cruise the canals. Always on the move. Just like the old Army days.'
'You go back to England much?' Newman had ventured.
'Never! Don't pay a penny tax in any country. Advantage of having a floating home. Never stay in one country more than five months. Bradley keeps the log. Ready to show any bloody snooping tax inspector. I can spit in their faces - often feel like doing just that. Have to excuse me. A lock coming up. A bit tricky the navigation sometimes. Like to skipper my own tub . . .'
Left alone, Newman thought it was a queer set-up. Almost as though Ralston was trying to perpetuate his old Army atmosphere. A tall slim girl with a good figure, wearing a formfitting red dress with a mandarin collar, came into the saloon, sat beside Newman.
'I'm Josette. If I wait for his lordship to introduce me we will never meet.'
'You spend a lot of time aboard?' Newman asked.
'I live on the boat. It's like that. You do realize why he invited you aboard?'
'You tell me.'
'To keep an eye on you, of course. He wonders what you're up to. Brand asked him to keep a lookout for strangers,' she whispered. 'Brand pays him a fee, of course. He's mean over money, the colonel. Except with drink. He's never drunk and never sober. I don't think I'm staying with him much longer.' She pulled at her dark hair, staring straight at Newman. 'Do you need a friend?'
'Let me think about it.' Newman paused. Was this a trap? Had Ralston sent her to get him to talk? He didn't think so. They were inside the lock now. Beyond the portholes concrete walls loomed.
'Ever met a man called Klein?' he asked.
'Yes. A friend of yours?'
'Never met him.'
'He's creepy. He's travelled with us several times. And he was very interested in the bargees - and their craft. Asked the colonel a lot of questions. Especially about one called Joseph Haber. Was he married? Did he have a family?'
'And is Haber married - and has he a family?'
'Yes. A wife who lives near Celle, a small village up in the Ardennes. They have a son called Lucien, I remember. It seemed odd to me why this Klein should be interested in things like that,'
"This Klein just travelled back and forth with Ralston?'
'Not all the time. He spent several days at the home of the millionaire banker, Peter Brand . . .'
'Change the subject,' Newman whispered as Sergeant Bradley marched in from the opening behind the bar.
Josette had good bone structure, a well-shaped face and her expression was dreamy, but she was quick-witted. 'I think the Meuse is the loveliest of all the rivers,' she said in a normal voice. 'You really should see the section in France called Les Dames de Meuse . . .'
'Colonel wants you on deck,' Bradley told her. 'He's just noticed you'd disappeared.' He poured more coffee into Newman's cup. 'Next stop Profondeville, sir. We dock there and call on Mr Brand's place.'
26
Tweed missed catching the express to Brussels as he'd planned. He made one last phone call to Lasalle to tell him he was leaving Paris. The Frenchman said he had further information and could they meet?
Inside the DSI chief's office Tweed sat drinking coffee while Lasalle explained.
'After our interview with that Corsican villain, Calgourli, I checked with the police chiefs of all major cities. I wanted data on any unusual happenings. I may have come up with something in Marseilles.'
'That's a long way south . . .'
'Wait, my friend. You recall Calgourli referred to his rival in Marseilles, Emilio Perugini? This is confidential -we have a snout inside Perugini's organization. A man called Klein visited Perugini at his Cassis villa - these rats live high. Through Perugini Klein hired a very hard case called Louis Chabot. Freelance type . . .'
'What type?'
'Bodyguard, killer - you name it. The Marseilles police report Chabot has disappeared from his normal haunts. Vanished into thin air was the phrase used. And he's an expert on explosives, also a professional scuba diver. The qualifications Klein laid down to Calgourli.'
'Sounds like a member of the team Klein is forming.'
'Wait!' Lasalle repeated. There's more. Chabot had a girl friend, a bar girl called Cecile Lamont. Her body was dragged out of the sea. The screws of a large liner sailing for Oran sliced her clean through the middle . . .'
'You think Chabot . . .'
'No, I don't. He was fond of the girl - and his record has no trace of him ever attacking a woman. The post-mortem showed how she died - before she was thrown into the sea. Her throat was cut from ear to ear.'
Tweed sighed. 'That's getting to have a familiar sound. And it sounds like Klein. He's a ruthless bastard,' he said with feeling. 'You can see the pattern. He never leaves anyone alive who could help us. Did you check with Interpol - get them to put Klein through the computer?'
'Yes. Result, a blank. I asked my colleague for any other recent murders. I don't think this is relevant, but they've found a Swiss Nestle truck driver dead in the Ardennes near Clervaux. Turkish driver on his way to Brussels with a delivery from the Nestle factory at some place called Broc . . .' He paused, seeing Tweed's expression. 'What's the matter?'
This Klein is a ghost.' He took a map from his pocket of Western Europe. 'Can we spread this out on your desk? I'd like to see if we can track this ghost . . .'
Tweed talked as he made crosses on the map, starting with Broc in Switzerland, moving on to Geneva, Basle and Clervaux as he explained the events in Geneva and Basle. The murder of the Swiss research genius in watch-making, the bullion robberies in Basle.
He made more crosses on Marseilles and Paris. Then he drew a route line through the crosses, with off-shoots to Marseilles and Paris. Standing up, he tapped the map with his felt-tip pen.
'You see?'
'He appears to be moving north, always north. Where the hell is he heading for? And why the cross on Dinant. That takes us into Belgium.'
'My thanks to you there - for putting me on to Lara Seagrave.' Tweed produced a tissue-wrapped package from his coat pocket, showed Lasalle the couque. 'Lara gave me that in Smiths' tea-room. Speciality made in Dinant. I think Klein has reached the Meuse. I've sent Bob Newman to poke around in that area. And I think the bullion stolen from Basle travelled this route aboard a barge . . .' He traced a route south of Basle, along the Canal de la Marne et Haut Rhin, continuing up the Canal de l'Est, crossing the border with Belgium and stopping at Dinant.
'That gold,' Tweed went on, 'I'm convinced was the money which originally financed Klein's operation. You heard what he offered Calgourli. Now, I need the fence who handled the bullion - converted it into hard cash for Klein. I may know who the fence is. What I need now is a link between the fence and Klein.'
'What's the significance of the Nestle truck and its Turkish driver? The Belgians are convinced it was murder. They've asked for the assistance of Chief Inspector Benoit in Brussels since the Belgian capital was its ultimate destination.'
'Like you, Benoit never gives up,' Tweed mused, studying his map. 'Any idea where Lara Seagrave is now?'
'Antwerp,' Lasalle said promptly. 'While she was here The Parrot followed her to Cherbourg. Same procedure as down in Marseilles and Le Havre. She took a lot of photographs of the harbour area. I'd have arrested her, grilled her by now if you hadn't asked me to hold off.'
Thank you. She could just be our only lead to Klein. How do you know she's in Antwerp? North again. And it's beginning very much to look like Belgium.'
The Parrot followed her when she took a train to Brussels, then another to Antwerp. I've already called Benoit to tell him. After all, The Parrot is on foreign soil. Benoit was very cooperative, has permitted The Parrot to continue tracking Seagra
ve. He's given my man back-up. What the blazes could be the target? We've had these persistent rumours of a hijack of a ship.'
'I happen to know Klein may be skilled at throwing out a smokescreen to cover his real operation. We'd better watch it. Under Klein's instructions - if she is - Lara could be leading us astray.'
'Don't follow that.'
'She could already have visited the target - in France. I'm suspicious she may now be pointing us in the wrong direction. Further north than the real target.'
'I tell you something in confidence,' Lasalle replied. 'We have sent out a general alert to all ports from Marseilles up the Atlantic coast to Le Havre. Two more things which may be of interest. Lara Seagrave is staying at the Plaza Hotel in Antwerp. And Interpol told me a number of known hard cases have disappeared from Luxembourg City.'
'Interesting. You know one of the Luxembourger's favourite sports?'
Tell me.'
'Scuba diving. And Luxembourg is close to the Meuse.'
They had eaten an excellent lunch of salmon steak aboard the Evening Star. Newman was getting the hang of the set-up on the vessel. Alfredo was a skilled dogsbody - he acted as cook as well as barman and general factotum. Sergeant Bradley did little except give orders to the crew. Josette did damn-all except look beautiful and listen to Ralston's pronouncements.
Under the surface he sensed an atmosphere of tension. He put it down to the colonel's sudden choleric outbursts of temper when something displeased him. Finishing off his lunch at the head of the table with a couple of cognacs, he was in a good humour as he stood up and beckoned to Newman to follow.
On deck he extended one short thick arm towards the right bank. The boat had changed course, was heading diagonally across the river as the hooter sounded continuously, warning other craft that might lie behind a nearby bend. .
'Brand's estate at Profondeville,' Ralston barked. 'Ten acres he's got - and land here costs gold dust.'
'Being a banker maybe he's got plenty of gold bullion,' Newman remarked casually.
'What's that you said? Plenty of?'
'Gold bullion. After all, you said he's a banker.'
'Don't know a thing about his business. Except his HQ is in Brussels - with a branch in Luxembourg City. Lives in a fabulous mansion in Brussels on the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. Park Lane of Brussels. Here he comes.'
The sun was shining out of a clear blue sky as Bradley ran about issuing orders. The cruiser was approaching a landing stage at the foot of a vast sloping green lawn. Spaced out across the trim green were shrubs sculpted in the shapes of various animals. There were life-like boars, stags, leopards and lions. A tall slim man wearing white flannels and holding a tennis racquet stood waiting on the landing stage.
'Christ!' Ralston burst out. 'Damn helmsman is bringing her in at the wrong angle . . .'
He bounded up the steps to the bridge. Inside the wheel-house Newman watched him push the helmsman aside, take over the wheel himself. He'd drunk a whole bottle of red wine with lunch, preceded by two double Scotches, to say nothing of the cognacs. Head like a rock.
The cruiser slowed, its course changed a few degrees, then it glided in, bumping the stage gently. Crew members leapt off holding ropes fore and aft, expertly looping the ropes round bollards. The man in flannels remained quite still, erect.
Ralston led the way once the gangway was in position. Shaking hands, he introduced his guest.
'Peter, brought a passenger. Robert Newman. Foreign correspondent chappie.'
'I don't normally permit reporters on my property.'
Brand's expression and tone were sardonic as he shook hands. Pale eyes under thin dark brows studied Newman, who took an instant dislike to the banker. In his thirties, a long lean face, a thin aquiline nose, a mobile mouth, he'd be a wow with a certain kind of woman who went for the matinee idol type. His voice was a stretched out drawl, his movements slow and easy.
Plenty of intelligence, Newman thought - and he'd know that. Not a man to underestimate, but maybe too clever by half.
'You've had a bad experience?' Newman responded. 'An interview that went wrong?'
'Something like that. It's the women who are the real bitches. Well, since you're here, you'd better come up to the house for a drink, I suppose.'
'Only if I'm welcome,' Newman said neutrally.
'Wouldn't have asked you had it been otherwise.' They had left the landing stage, were walking up a gravel path towards a two-storey white-walled mansion. The path was wide but on either side beyond the gravel Newman noticed deep wheel ruts in the lawn.
'Something's spoilt your grass,' he remarked, walking alongside Brand. Ralston was stumping ahead, doubtless in need of more liquid refreshment.
'That's what I mean,' Brand replied in his slow careful tone. 'Reporters are always noticing things, remarking on them.'
'Must have been a heavy vehicle,' Newman persisted.
'Jesus!' Brand slapped his leg with the racquet. 'It's a machine I have for levelling the gravel. Its axis is too wide. Obvious solution, widen the path. Which I'm going to have done. Any more questions?'
'Know a man called Klein?'
'Several. Common name on the continent. What's his first name?'
'Oscar,' Newman invented.
'No. Friend of yours?'
'I've been asked to interview him. He's an authority on the Meuse.'
'Is he now? I think we'll have drinks on the terrace. The Colonel makes himself at home, as you'll see.'
The terrace was raised up and a central flight of steps led up to the elevation which ran the full width of the mansion. To the left of the building Newman saw a tennis court. A large swimming pool with a blue tile surround occupied the centre of the terrace. Garden chairs were placed round it and Ralston was helping himself from a decanter on a table laden with bottles and glasses.
'What are you drinking - if anything?' Brand enquired in a bored tone, throwing down the racquet on a swing couch.
'A Scotch. Water. No ice. Nice little place you've got here.'
Brand flashed him a look as he reached for the decanter. The hostility between the two men crackled like static electricity. Newman had no intention of touching his forelock to this sarcastic sod. And if you needle a man long enough he sometimes says more than he wishes.
'I'm glad you like my pied-a-terre,' Brand responded as he poured the drink, planted the glass on the table and plonked a heavy jug of water beside it. The jug, Newman noted, was the finest Swedish glass. 'You should,' he went on, mixing himself a drink, 'it cost four million.'
'Francs?' asked Newman innocently.
'Christ no! Pound sterling.'
Ralston sat down, crossed his chunky legs. He had sensed the animosity and his eyes studied Newman who occupied one of the garden chairs.
'Newman,' he told Brand, 'is interested in whether your outfit handles gold bullion.'
'Is he now?' Brand swallowed half his drink before he replied. 'May I ask the reason for your interest? Thinking of tucking away some of your book profits in a few bars the tax man will never find?'
'Oh, I'm just intrigued in how the other half lives. Could I use the loo?'
'Round that side of the house. Second door on the left and straight ahead. You can't miss it. I hope . . .'
Newman grinned amiably, walked along the rim of the swimming pool and round behind the house. He looked down as he walked. The wheel rims of the heavy-tyred vehicle had continued from the lawn up the gravel but were fainter. As though someone had brushed the gravel to eliminate the traces.
He walked on past the second door. The wheel impressions continued past the house across the front drive. They only disappeared where they met a tarred road which wound its way past more millionaire-style mansions behind trim hedges.
He returned quickly to the house, checking the mullion-paned windows. There was no sign of life, no sign that anyone had seen him. He walked inside the house in search of the toilet. A tall slim girl in her twenties, hair the colour of g
olden corn, dressed in tennis blouse and shorts, met him, coming the other way down the corridor.
'Looking for the loo,' Newman said.
'That door at the end of the passage.'
She pulled strands of her long hair, tucked them in her red-lipped mouth, stopped and stared at him. 'You look English. Are you?'
'Robert Newman. And yes, I'm pretty English.'
'Thank God for that. I'm sick of speaking French. Peter insists it's the polite thing to do. He plays a mean game of tennis - hates to lose, especially to a woman. Great sportsmen, these bankers. He plays a mean game at everything, come to think of it. God, you've no idea how boring the rich are. I think I'm going to cut and run.'
'Your decision,' Newman said breezily.
She lingered, studying him. Over her shoulder Newman gazed through a half-open door into a study. A teleprinter machine was quietly chattering away, mouthing out a spool of paper.
'I'm Carole Browne,' the girl went on. 'Maybe we could meet in Brussels - or some place?'
Newman took out his visiting card, tucked it inside a pocket of her blouse. The firmness of her breast pushed against his hand.
'Ever heard of a man called Klein?' he asked.
'Yes. Friend of Peter's. Some friend. He's spent several nights here. They spend their time behind the closed door of the study . . .'
She broke off as Newman heard steps crunching the gravel outside. He winked at her, spoke rapidly. 'I agree this is a lovely part of the world. Riviera is the word for it . . .'
'And what the hell do you two think you're up to?' Brand's voice asked behind him. 'I thought you were on your way to the loo.'
'I am.' Newman half-turned. 'This young lady has just told me where it is. You need a map for this maze of a house.'
'And who, if I may ask, left that study door open?'
'I was just going to close it,' Carole snapped, 'when I bumped into your friend. Here is the paper you asked for.' She handed him a copy of The Times which she produced from the tennis bag she carried. Newman saw from the front page it was one of the issues containing a series of articles he had written on revolutionary methods for tackling the terrorist menace - complete with his picture. Carole showed no sign of being intimidated as she continued talking to Newman.
