by Colin Forbes
They walked into a spacious room with shag carpet, a luminous blue which gave a feeling of warmth. It was divided into two sections with a panelled partition excluding one half. The walls were rounded and Paula realized they were still at the summit of the Cone. More comfortable armchairs and antique tables were scattered about. Marienetta headed for the closed door in the panelled wall, taking out another computer card from her gold handbag slung over the shoulder.
'Inside here,' she announced in a tone of mock gravity, 'is my Holy of Holies. Few visitors see it. I ban all bores.'
'I want a drink,' Sophie called out rudely.
She was pursing her lips, using one hand to stroke her hair. She stood stock-still.
'You can have a glass of water,' Marienetta said, picking up a glass by a water cooler. 'No alcohol here.'
'Don't want water. I'm going to my office. Open the bloody door.'
'Do watch your mouth when we have visitors,' Marienetta said gently, going back to open the outer door.
Newman said something about how he hoped they'd meet later. Sophie brushed past him without a glance in his direction.
'She's in a mood,' Marienetta said amiably after relocking the door. 'But she's a genius with security and inventing new weapons.'
'Weapons?' asked Tweed.
'She can tell you how Marlborough fought the battle of Ramillies and the function of the hydrogen bomb. Science is her real flair. Now, let me show you.'
The room beyond the panelling was a surprise. A white tiled floor, work tables with half-finished sculptures, modern, large bowls of plaster, a variety of tools. Beyond was an easel with an unframed portrait of Roman Arbogast. Very lifelike. A palette with squelches of paint, a large ceramic pot crammed with long-handled paint brushes.
'Is this your work?' asked Paula as Marienetta donned a long white coat smeared with paint.
'It's where I'm really at home.'
She picked up a hammer and tapped hard at the shoulder of a sculpture in stone of a sprawling man half-sitting up. The whole arm broke off, Marienetta shrugged, slammed down the hammer on the metal table top.
'That's ruined it,' she said. 'Have to start again.'
Tweed had walked over to a mantelpiece, where a small maquette - or miniature sculpture - rested. He picked it up carefully, admired it, turned round to address Marienetta.
'This is your creation?'
'You have an artistic eye, Mr Tweed. Unfortunately it is not mine. Roman lent it to me for inspiration. It is a genuine Henry Moore maquette, cost a fortune at auction.'
Tweed was carefully returning the precious maquette to its place on the mantelpiece while Paula wandered over to the easel with the unframed portrait of Arbogast. 'You paint too,' she said to Marienetta who had followed her.
'I daub, but it clears my head of other problems,'
'It really is a marvellous likeness. You've got him perfectly.'
'Turn it over. There's another painting on the other side.'
Paula gingerly took hold of the top of the picture. It was painted on board, not canvas. She swivelled the picture round and perched it back on the easel with the second painting showing. She stepped back a pace, shocked.
It was another painting of Roman, a horrific version of Marienetta's uncle. The face was distorted, the mouth open, exposing small sharp teeth, the lips twisted far to one side. The expression was of incredibly murderous rage, the jowls large and twisted the opposite way to the lips. The flesh was bloated, the head unbalanced, one vicious eye lower than the other. She had the impression the head might leap out at her, the teeth tearing her face. She felt her heart beating faster. The picture was terrifying.
'He was in a bad mood when I painted that,' Marienetta said calmly as she reversed the board back to show the lifelike version.
'Must have been something he'd eaten,' Newman said standing at Paula's shoulder.
Marienetta chuckled, then began laughing and couldn't stop. Taking out a silk handkerchief she placed it over her mouth, turned to Newman.
'Bob, I love your sense of humour. That was really funny.'
Paula glanced beyond Newman. Tweed was standing perfectly still. He had the grimmest expression Paula had ever seen.
3
Marienetta accompanied them down in the special lift. As they walked out she paused to have a word with a uniformed guard. Tweed was walking with Paula to the exit while Newman collected his revolver and bullets from the desk when Broden appeared. Earlier he had worn a grey business suit but now he was clad in a rough-haired sports jacket and corduroy trousers tucked inside knee-length leather boots. The gamekeeper, Paula thought.
'Hope you enjoyed your session with Cat's Eye,' he barked.
'Cat's Eye?' Paula queried.
'That's what the staff call Marienetta behind her back. Jasper has gone to fetch your car, Newman.'
'I don't think you realize how your voice carries,' said Marienetta as she joined them, giving Broden a radiant smile. 'Now could you please go outside and make sure the coast is clear for Mr Tweed and his party to leave?'
Broden tightened his lips, strode off. A minute later he beckoned. They went through the same business of passing through the revolving door one by one. Broden was on the pavement when, on the top step, Paula gripped Tweed's arm.
'That strange lady is still waiting across the street.'
'Strange lady?' His thoughts were miles away.
'The one who is so small and still. Wearing a pale green coat and a dark green fur hat.'
'As I said before, you get all kinds of visitors coming to London.'
'Which woman is that?' demanded Broden who had run back up the steps. 'Oh, I see her. She was here when you arrived?'
'I'm not sure,' Paula said quickly. 'Let her be.'
'Jasper,' Broden called out to the doorman, 'check out Fur Hat standing across the street, why she's hanging round here for for so long.'
Broden disappeared inside the building as Tweed walked down the steps, got inside the front passenger seat. Paula gazed across the street but then Newman was driving off.
'I hope Jasper doesn't spot her camera,' she remarked.
'Camera?' Tweed asked, turning round.
'Yes, she had a small camera in her hands, rather like mine. She used it when we arrived and again as we left.'
'She's not committing an offence,' Tweed replied. 'Now what did you think of the Arbogasts?'
'They're a very unusual family. I thought I sensed an aura of hatred in Roman's office.'
'Sophie,' Newman commented, 'doesn't feel they take enough notice of her. I rather liked her. She's got brains behind that rather quiet front she assumes.'
'Marienetta was nice to her.'
'Neither of you have noticed the absence of something,' Tweed said. 'Roman never said a word about the visit of the American Vice-President. And I'm sure it was Roman he went to see. Who else in the building would he want to talk to? And what is the link between Roman and Russell Straub?'
'Can't imagine Roman controls many votes in an election in the States,' Newman replied. 'And votes are the only thing politicians are interested in. Probably all about nothing.'
'Maybe,' said Tweed.
* * *
Their car was stationary. Ahead as far as the eye could see was a solid block of cars, bumper to bumper. The stone buildings hemming them in on either side were grimy. The pavements were crammed with pedestrians. Lunchtime. Men and women shoved their way along. In doorways stood girls eating greasy food out of greasy paper bags.
Paula pulled a face. 'I don't see any nutrition anywhere.'
She closed her window. A heavy overcast hung low over the city. The 'air' in the street was a mix of petrol and diesel fumes, pressed down by the overcast.
'London is turning into a mob hell,' she remarked.
'Talking about hell,' said Newman, 'what did you think of Marienetta's second painting of Roman? Made him look like an ogre.'
'A monster,' retorted Paula.
&n
bsp; 'Like many painters,' Tweed explained, 'she's influenced by famous artists. In her case Picasso. And in sculpture by Henry Moore.'
'Picasso's worst effort was never as brutal as the one she painted of Roman,' Paula commented.
The traffic had started to move. Soon they were turning into Park Crescent. A man was sitting on the steps leading into their building. Newman groaned.
'Him I can do without. That's Sam Snyder, chief crime reporter on the Daily Nation. His name should be spelt Snide. He's good, I'll grant him that, but ruthless where people's feelings are concerned. Don't let him inside.'
Tweed got out first, was about to hurry up the steps when he was accosted. The reporter had stood up, spoke rapidly.
'Mr Tweed. Thought you might like to know I have a splash story in tomorrow's paper. About the first one in the state of Maine. I'm just back from America. Murder.'
What he'd said stopped Tweed. He paused before pressing the bell, stared straight at the reporter.
'Which murder?'
'The caretaker who was beheaded at a dot on the map called Pinedale, south of Portland. Head missing there too. Like Holgate.'
'And you want to talk to me about it? Come upstairs.' He pressed the bell.
As they followed the two men to Tweed's office Paula looked at Newman. He raised his eyes to Heaven as much as to say, 'Tweed's blown it.' She poked a finger into his arm and whispered.
'Keep quiet. Tweed usually knows what he's doing . . .'
Inside the office Monica sat behind her desk, hammering away at her word processor. Tweed ushered his visitor into an armchair, sat behind his desk.
'I'm Sam Snyder
'I know. I'm afraid I haven't much time. You talk, I will listen.'
'My story also mentions that the Vice-President has a wreck of a mansion just outside Pinedale.'
'He's going to love that,' Tweed commented. 'And he has just arrived in London.'
'I simply report the facts. I thought it was interesting. Russell Straub arrives here three days ago. Now Holgate's beheaded body is discovered out near Bray.'
'You're linking the three events in your story?'
Snyder smiled. He was a strange impressive figure. He had a hawk-like face, long and cadaverous. His nose reminded Paula of the prow of an ice-breaker; his eyes were dark and very still. His well-educated voice was commanding and he sat erect in the armchair. His age was difficult to guess. Forty? Fifty? Sixty? Later Paula asked Newman and he told her Snyder seemed ageless, always had. Despite disliking his arrogance Newman admitted he was a formidable force.
'Link those three events, Mr Tweed?' Snyder again gave his peculiar smile. 'Of course not. The facts merely appear in different sections of my story.'
'So why did you fly to America?'
'I read a long account in the New York Times a few days ago. This was before Holgate's murder. I was struck by an item reporting that the pathologist - or medical examiner as they call them over there - was brought up from Boston. Why not the local man in Portland? I was over there twenty-four hours, flew straight back. Yesterday a member of the FBI detachment at the American Embassy phoned me. That decided me. I wrote the story.'
'What did the FBI man ask you?'
'I didn't take the call. The pathologist from Boston was a Dr Ramsey. Quite a reputation.'
'What made you suspicious of this business? Something you found out apart from the medical examiner coming from Boston?'
'Outside Pinedale there is a nursing home, really a lunatic asylum. Hank Foley, the decapitated caretaker, worked there. The asylum was burnt to the ground a few hours after Hank Foley was murdered. Fortunately there were no patients left inside the building. It was the sort of place where very rich people parked an unwanted relative - unwanted because of a mental condition. It was run by a married couple, the Bryans. They have disappeared and no one seems to know where they have gone.'
'Intriguing,' commented Tweed.
'Now, sir, I have been open with you. So what did you discover last night when you travelled to Bray with Chief Superintendent Buchanan?'
'You pick up some strange rumours, Mr Snyder.'
The phone rang, Monica answered it, listened, gestured for Tweed to take it. He lifted the phone, pushed his chair nearer to the wall. Snyder stood up, ignored Newman, wandered over to the wall near Paula's desk to study a framed print on the wall. She had been staring at his clothes. He wore a rough jacket with trousers to match. At his throat a cravat was tied which had a design of foxes capering about. He was clad more like a countryman than a London reporter.
'I like this very much. It's a Turner print. Did you choose it?' He smiled warmly, his manner now pleasant.
'As a matter of fact, I did.'
'You have excellent taste. It's Perugia, isn't it? Thought so. What an atmospheric genius Turner was. The fortress town perched up suggests massive strength. I congratulate you.'
'Thank you.'
Tweed had taken his brief call as Snyder returned to his armchair. He had been surprised when the throaty voice spoke. Roman Arbogast.
'Tweed, I do hope you will attend Sophie's birthday party with your two friends. Other also distinguished people will be there.'
'We will be glad to come . . .'
The phone went dead. Roman was not a man to waste time on what he'd regard as pointless conversation.
'What is your opinion of the horrific Holgate murder?' enquired Snyder.
'I don't think I've formed one.'
'You're as tough as granite,' Snyder observed in his normal arrogant manner. 'I think I'd better go. I've received an unusual invitation to a birthday party - for Sophie, the daughter of Roman Arbogast. Expect he wants a write-up.'
Tweed fiddled with his pen. 'I've heard a rumour that one of the guests may be Russell Straub. Thought I'd warn you.'
'The paper with my story won't be on the streets until tomorrow.'
'The early editions will be available at midnight,' Tweed reminded him. 'Straub is the sort of man who likes a team of aides with him wherever he goes, I suspect. One of those aides may hear of your article and drive over to get a copy.'
'Well, if Straub is going to be there so am I.' He paused. 'I suppose you know that when you arrived back here you had been followed? The men inside the car had Special Branch written all over them.'
'Nice to be protected,' replied Tweed, concealing his surprise at this news.
'Something very funny is going on.' Snyder stood up. 'When I was in Maine I noticed I had to penetrate a blanket of silence. People were very nervous about talking. Keep well, all of you. I'll be in touch, Tweed
And with that brief farewell Snyder said he could find his own way out and left. No one spoke for a few minutes. Paula broke the silence, glaring at Newman.
'You never said a word to him,' she snapped.
'Didn't have a word to say. Neither did he to me.'
'He was our guest. A polite greeting would have done no harm. Where are your manners? The fact that you don't like him is irrelevant,' she went on, working herself up. 'And he was very nice with me during our brief exchange of conversation.'
'Hope you enjoyed it,' Newman rapped back ironically.
'You're impossible,' she retorted.
The phone rang, Monica answered it, looked at Tweed. 'We've got Chief Superintendent Buchanan on the line for you.'
'Hello, Roy,' Tweed opened. 'How is life with you?'
'Pretty grim. I've been taken off the Holgate murder case, told that no one on my team is to go anywhere near it. And guess where the order comes from? The Commissioner himself. Said it was strictly a matter for the local force in Berkshire. He was pretty rough about it - as though he'd received word from on high. Are you staying with it?'
'After what you've just told me I most certainly am. What is going on, Roy?'
'For some reason they're putting a cordon round the Holgate murder. Who are they? No idea. But they're pretty high up - someone had obviously twisted the Commissioner's arm. Someone
very powerful. I'll contact you if I learn more. If you want to call me, use my home number. Got to go . . .'
Tweed told the others what Buchanan had said. Paula was furious. 'Buchanan is the best detective they've got.'
'Which is probably why they - the mysterious they - have put him in quarantine. And while I remember it, I won't have you two fighting each other. Clear?'
'Sorry,' said Paula.
'Ditto,' added Newman. 'What did you think of Snyder? He had obviously hoped you'd let slip some information he could use. Silly chap.'
'But how could he have known about our visit to Bray?' Paula wondered.
'He has so many informants,' Newman explained. 'Some in the police force. Plus a depthless access to expenses. Two hundred quid offered and one of those policemen we encountered would spill his guts. The world has changed a lot.'
Tweed brought up another point. 'What did you think of Sam Snyder, Paula? I know what you think, Bob.'
'I think he's very shrewd,' she began, 'the sort of man who never gives up once he suspects he's on to a really big story. I think he'll continue with his investigation.'
'He did say several things which interested me,' Tweed said thoughtfully, staring out of the window. 'A very weird picture is building up in my mind.'
