by Colin Forbes
'Chopper,' Marler said. 'Coming down. Taking one hell of a chance in this stuff. And there it is.'
'A police helicopter. Oh, dear. Now-we-must-be-very-careful-indeed.' Hipper was spacing words again, like a ruddy child. 'Do you not think they may well be able to see us?'
'In this fog?' Marler's tone was contemptuous. 'And in case you haven't noticed, the colour of our car is grey. So, the answer to your question is not if we remain stationary. And this happens to be a good vantage point.'
The fog was clearing lower down the steep hillside. Marler had stopped at a point where the road curved round a rocky bluff, hanging over the Meuse which now came into view far below. It flowed slowly, smooth as gliding oil. Pretty wide even this far upstream. A towpath on the bank below them, Marler noted. A sedge-like projection of clumps of grass and reeds appeared spreading from the edge of the far bank.
'Oh, no!' Hipper exclaimed. 'Not here. Not here . . .'
Marler sighed. Hipper was whimpering, almost like a scared puppy. The big Alouette, fuselage gleaming in the pallid sun-light with moisture, descended slowly, a few hundred yards from where they sat in the parked vehicle. Marler could see the pilot was nervous. With damned good reason. A similar bluff of limestone rock projected above the river on the opposite bank.
He waited for the brief clash of metal striking rock, the whirling rotors crashing against a crag. The machine dropped very slowly, landed on the towpath - which was just wide enough to accommodate the Alouette. He reached for the rifle concealed beneath a travelling rug carelessly thrown over the back seat, pulled the telescopic sight free from beneath his seat to which it had been attached by adhesive tape. He asked the question as he cleaned the sight, began attaching it to the rifle.
'Could Newman be aboard that police chopper?'
'I really have no idea . . .'
'And why are you so concerned the chopper landed at this point?'
'Nothing.' Hipper had hesitated before replying. 'Just a fit of nerves . . .'
"Then stop yammering and let me concentrate.'
Marler climbed slowly out of the car, walked to the edge of the bluff. He wasn't worried he'd be seen. People looked everywhere except upwards. He adjusted the sight, aimed it at the passengers alighting from the Alouette on to the towpath. Behind him Hipper also alighted from the car, gripping his camera as he joined the Englishman.
'Newman is with that crowd,' Marler observed.
'You can get him?'
Hipper sounded excited. He couldn't keep still. He raised his camera and stared down through the lens at the group moving below.
'Keep your voice down,' Marler whispered. 'Sound carries a long distance in this fog.' He lowered his rifle and glared at the Luxembourger. 'Can't see him now - the fog keeps drifting down there. And get away from me. Climb that hill on the other side of the road. You're disturbing my concentration. What the hell are you doing anyway?'
'Waiting for you to kill Newman. I want a photograph of the body. Our friend will be interested to see that . . .'
Tweed stood on the towpath, sniffing the dank air, moisture clinging to his face like the fingers of an invisible ghost. Down at the edge of the Meuse the atmosphere was creepy. A shaft of sunlight, reflecting motes of the moisture, shone briefly on the opposite bank and was gone. A heavy silence hung over the river and the damp cold was beginning to penetrate their clothes. Tweed adjusted his wide-brimmed waterproof hat and pointed to the congested morass projecting from the opposite bank.
'That's where I want to explore.'
'God knows how,' Newman commented. 'Care for a swim?'
'What a horrid-looking marsh,' Paula said and buttoned up her raincoat to her neck. 'Are you sure that was the place, Tweed?'
'Quite sure. I saw something. Ah, what have we here?'
Inspector Sonnet, looking mournful, had disappeared along the towpath round a bend. There was a chug-chugging sound and he reappeared, holding the tiller of a large outboard dinghy as he cruised towards them, steered inshore, stopped the engine and climbed on to the towpath, holding a mooring rope.
'I found it tied up to a rotting landing stage,' he explained. 'Probably belongs to a fisherman. This is one of their favourite grounds.'
'And just commandeered by the police for investigation purposes,' Lasalle announced breezily. 'How do' we get out of here if the mist persists? I can't see the pilot agreeing to lift off until it clears.'
'Arrangements have been made,' Sonnet told him. 'A couple of my men are driving two Deux-Chevaux from Givet. They are the only vehicles which can negotiate this towpath. Since they did not know where we would be they started at the end. They should be here soon.'
Tweed glanced at the thin-faced inspector with approval; he seemed well-organized. Almost too good a man for the provinces. He felt the torch he always carried inside his coat pocket, braced his shoulders against the chill.
'Well, who is coming across with me to check over there? I would like Newman with me - if no one objects.'
'I'd like to come to,' Paula said firmly. She saw Tweed's expression. 'At the risk of boring you, someone used the phrase baptism of fire.'
Three of us so far,' Tweed remarked. 'It's a large dinghy. How many will it hold? Safely.'
'Five,' said Lasalle. 'Benoit, you go too. Sonnet is the helmsman. I'll stand guard here. I could do with a stroll up and down this towpath. I'm stiff. Good hunting, Tweed. Bet you don't find anything . . .'
Tweed thanked God he'd taken a Dramamine as he climbed carefully into the rocking bow of the craft which wobbled madly. He gave Paula a hand to come aboard and then sat down, staring at the swamp.
Sonnet handled the dinghy with great skill, heading upstream to counter the flowing current, following Tweed's instructions to bring the dinghy to the reed bank at a certain point. Inshore, the power of the current slackened. Sonnet slowed and nosed the dinghy inside the waist-high reeds, stopping so the outboard was not tangled.
It was very dark beneath the overhang of the forest. Paula was looking everywhere and she stiffened suddenly while gazing up at the bank they had left behind. Tweed sensed her reaction.
'What is it?'
'The mist cleared up there for a few seconds. I could have sworn I saw someone on top of a crag.'
'I doubt it,' Benoit called out. 'The mist plays tricks and you see phantoms which aren't there.'
'I suppose so . . .'She sounded unconvinced, then broke off as Tweed stood up and shone his torch. 'My God!' she began. 'What are you doing . . . ?'
Tweed appeared to have stepped out of the dinghy into the squelchy morass. His feet hit solid surface and he reached out to pul! at a mass of broken reeds, pulling them away to expose the upper half of a wheelhouse.
Gargantua. The name, a brass plate screwed to the wheel-house, jumped out in Tweed's torch beam. He had removed a mass of broken reeds piled up against the structure. He shone his torch inside the wheelhouse. Empty. The wheel heeled over at a drunken angle.
'God! You were right,' Newman, close to Paula, called out. They sank the barge.'
'Klein's work,' Tweed said. 'I bet six months' pay that when the French forensic people check the hold they'll find traces of gold. Which was why it had to disappear. Better keep back, both of you. The deck's like a skating rink.'
His shoes slopped through a mess of reeds and water, making his way along the inclined deck of the half-submerged vessel. He crouched low, keeping to starboard, holding on to the deck rail. His torch beam picked out a muddled pattern of coiled ropes, oil slicks. It was-the port side which had heeled into the swamp, tilting the starboard clear of the deep water.
Sliding his left hand along the rail, he slithered, recovered his balance, continued towards the bow. Following close behind, Paula was amazed at the agility he displayed, moving one foot in front of the other, feeling his way cautiously, checking what lay ahead with the torch.
Paula knew something was wrong when, close to the slanting bow, he stopped suddenly, his posture rigid. He swi
tched off the torch, turned and called out over his shoulder in a brusque but calm voice.
'Paula, go back. Now!'
'What is it?' she demanded. 'I'm not a schoolgirl, Goddamnit. You saw something. What was it? I'm determined to see.'
'Better come back with me,' Newman suggested.
'Oh, do belt up, Bob. Go back yourself, if you must.'
'Very well,' Tweed said. 'Maybe you're right. Look there.'
He switched on the torch again, directed the beam to a point in the swamp just beyond the bow. Paula stared along the beam. She suddenly felt horribly cold. Her legs went like jelly. She gritted her teeth, stiffened her legs, pressed her feet hard against a loop of chain she stood on, forced herself to stand erect.
'Oh, yuck!' She let out her breath. 'I'm all right.'
Framed in the circular beam of the torchlight was the head and shoulders of a man sunk in the swamp. He appeared to be grinning, his mouth slack, his teeth showing. Below his chin his thick neck was slashed with a red wound from ear to ear. The blood had congealed into what looked like a scar. His black hair was matted flat over his head and his eyes stared sightless at the intruders. Just below water level the body had enlarged, bloated like an obscene balloon.
'Haber,' said Tweed. 'He killed Haber, sank his barge.'
Sonnet had come up behind Newman. He peered round Newman's body to get a better look. Paula distinctly heard in the silence a hiss as Sonnet sucked in his breath.
'That's not Haber. That's Broucker, Haber's employee. The bargee he uses to sail the Erika.'
30
Marler peered through his telescopic sight. The mist had cleared briefly and he watched the outboard dinghy returning towards the towpath across the river. Newman's face jumped into the sight, the dinghy continued its passage, Marler had a glimpse of another man, who was Tweed. His finger tightened on the trigger, the image blurred.
He lowered the rifle, gazing down. Another bank of mist had drifted below the bluff, blotting out the Meuse. He waited patiently, glancing behind him. Hipper had perched himself in a rocky crevice above the far side of the road. He also had lowered his camera. He came scrambling awkwardly down the hillside.
'Why did you not shoot? I saw him clearly in my lens . . .'
'Hipper . . .' Marler reached out a hand and clenched the Luxembourger's shoulder, '. . . are you trying to tell me how to do my job?' His grip tightened. 'Because if so it will give me great pleasure to hurl you off the top of this crag. I do need a clear field of fire and the mist came across it. Also, you are not thinking, are you?'
'What do you mean?' Hipper winced. 'And you are hurting me.'
'Hipper,' Marler repeated, 'when the job is done we need a safe escape route. Those are police down there -with a chopper. So, we need two things. Enough ceiling fog to stop the chopper taking off and locating us from the air when we drive off. But, as I said, I also need a clear field of fire. No mist. A difficult combination.'
'What are you going to do about it?'
'Oh, it's just me now? That's better. Go back to your rabbit hole.' His tone changed, became very cold. 'And stay there until the job is done.'
He turned away, looked up towards the sky above the Meuse. Dense as cotton wool. No chopper could take off up into that. He smoothed a hand over the crown of his head. The patch he normally kept bald with an electric shaver had grown over - making identification more difficult. The bald patch was his trademark; hence his nickname, The Monk.
He stiffened as he looked down. The river bank was clear of fog. A group of four men and a girl stood chatting on the towpath. The fifth man had cruised back downstream, presumably to the point where he'd found the dinghy.
He raised his rifle, squinted through it. Newman's face and head was bisected by the crosshairs. Very close to him was another man, who appeared to be Tweed. Marler took careful aim, steady as a rock. He pressed the trigger as Newman moved a pace to his right, as Tweed stooped to empty water from his shoe.
The crack of the shot echoed weirdly in the mist. Marler gazed through the sight for a few seconds, then stepped back from the bluff. Hipper made record time reaching him. The Englishman looked amazed.
'Missed him. He moved at the last second. And we'd better get moving . . .'
'A bit close that. . .'
Tweed showed his hat. The bullet had nicked the brim. He stared up towards the bluff and it vanished in a fresh bank of drifting vapour. Lasalle reacted first.
'Someone up there tried to kill one of us. Listen! A car has started. Get that chopper up . . .' He ran to the machine, spoke to the pilot, who slammed the door, started the rotors, began to ascend vertically. He ran back to the others.
The Monk's work, I suspect,' Tweed remarked.
'Is it safe for the Alouette to take off?' Benoit asked.
"The pilot says OK,' Lasalle told him. 'All he has to do is keep rising vertically on the upward course where he descended. He's climbing until he gets above the fog, then he's going after that car.'
'Lord,' Paula said, eyeing Tweed's hat, 'he could have killed you.' She shivered.
'You know what they say - a miss is as good as a mile. And what's this coming?'
Two cars, Deux-Chevaux, orange-coloured, were proceeding at slow speed along the towpath. Sonnet sat beside the driver of one of them. Lasalle took off again, running towards the lead vehicle. He spoke quickly to Sonnet, who nodded as Lasalle gestured vigorously. Jumping out of the car, he ran back to the vehicle behind, spoke to the driver. The vehicle began backing away along the towpath as Tweed watched anxiously. The driver was going to end up in the river.
He didn't. He reached a certain point, turned his wheel and disappeared inside the forest. Sonnet walked back to them.
'I instructed him to find that car. He has driven up one of the tracks which will take him on to the road. He has radio. The Alouette will be able to communicate, guide him. And he is calling for reinforcements.'
Lasalle had been staring up the side of the hill. The mist cleared again, clearly exposing the huge bluff. He pulled an automatic from his shoulder holster, aimed the gun and emptied the magazine, filing at intervals round the crag, varying his aim. Taking a fresh magazine from his pocket, he rammed it in place and holstered the weapon.
'What was that in aid of?' Newman asked. 'He's gone . . .'
'He appears to have gone,' Lasalle replied. 'He could have had another man with him, someone who drove away their car. Just a precaution. My fusillade will have frightened him off- if he was still there. Who was he trying to kill, I wonder? How did he know we would be here?'
'I think Newman was the target,' Tweed replied quietly. 'He was pointed to this area by Peter Brand, the banker. Later I think we should have a talk with Mr Brand. Meantime, may I make a request?' he addressed Inspector Sonnet. 'Could I have a brief chat with Newman in that car?'
'Of course, sir. I kept it so we have transport back to Givet. Another car is on the way.'
'We have things to talk over, Bob,' Tweed said and led the way to the car.
'Can't you drive faster?' yelped Hipper. 'You were wrong about that helicopter. I heard it taking off. And why are you turning off the main road? You can't drive fast along here . . .'
'Hipper, shut your mouth. I crave silence. If you do not mind - even if you do.'
They had turned on to a winding country lane which was climbing. Overhead the trees on either side met, forming a tunnel of foliage. Marler slowed the car, then stopped. Hipper clutched the camera in his lap.
'You must drive on - as fast as you can . . .'
'My dear Hipper.' Marler paused to light one of his rare cigarettes. That is exactly what they will expect us to do. Belt like mad along a main highway. Listen.'
The chug-chug of a helicopter came closer. Hipper took out a soiled handkerchief, wiped sweat dripping from his greasy forehead. The machine passed overhead, the sound faded into the distance.
'You see?' Marler yawned. 'We wait until things have settled down. They can't s
earch every road in the Ardennes. So, we wait.'
At the last moment Tweed decided to take Butler with Newman to the Deux-Chevaux which was now empty, the driver having joined Sonnet and the others opposite the sunken Gargantua. Harry had typically remained silent since their excursion across the river, but he sometimes noticed something in a narrative which escaped Tweed.
'Bob,' said Tweed when they were seated inside the Deux-Chevaux, 'tell me again briefly what you reported about your adventures on the Meuse. Especially anything about those bargees ..."
He listened intently as Newman recapitulated what had happened. His interview with Willy Boden and his wife, Simone. His later experience aboard Colonel Ralston's Evening Star. He had just finished recalling his chat with Ralston's girl friend, Josette, when Tweed interrupted.
'You say Josette told you Haber has a family, a wife and a son called Lucien, living near this tiny village, Celle?'
That's right. Not relevant . . .'
'I wonder. I think we've got this thing the wrong way round - that Klein has again been diabolically clever. I thought the Gargantua might well be used to transport the timers made by the murdered Swiss watchmaker. But it was the Erika, the other barge, which Boden and his wife saw moving downstream towards Namur?'
'Right again.'
'We'd better get back to Lasalle and Benoit. I'm worried stiff about the time element.'
'What puzzles me,' Butler broke in for the first time, 'is why would Haber agree to pull the plug on his own barge? Money? I doubt it.'
'And there,' Tweed agreed, 'you've put your finger on the whole business. Let's move.'
'Inspector Sonnet,' Tweed said as soon as they reached the waiting group gathered on the towpath, 'I gather that since you identified the corpse as Broucker, not Haber, you must know something about Haber?'
'Know him well.' The thin Frenchman was terse in speech. 'There may be a frontier beyond Givet. It means little. We are all part of the Meuse. The lifeline of this part of Belgium and France.'
