Vorpal Blade

by Colin Forbes

  'One of the guests at the back of the room wanted a breath of fresh air. He told me he'd seen this pack of papers strung up outside a closed newsagent's. It's tomorrow's paper - or rather today's now. Well after midnight.'

  'You said you knew something about Holgate.' Tweed gazed at him. 'You were joking, of course.'

  'Never been more serious in my life.' He had minutes ago taken his hand off her arm as he turned to Paula. 'The offer still stands. Take you out for a drink and I'll spill the beans. Interesting beans - in view of what has happened to the poor devil.' He was amiable without being persistent. 'Give me your phone number and I'll call you.'

  Behind Black Jack's back Tweed nodded at Paula. She hesitated, then produced a card from her evening bag. It was printed with the cover name for the SIS, the General & Cumbria Assurance Company. Plus the phone number for Monica's second telephone for outside calls.

  'Make it seven o'clock the day after tomorrow,' Paula decided. 'At Marino's.'

  'Give you a buzz,' he said, and walked off into the drizzle with long strides.

  Newman had hailed a cab and they all piled inside. Tweed gave the driver the address of Park Crescent and then closed the glass panel so he couldn't hear what they were saying. He had seen the expression on Paula's face. She had perched on the folding seat facing him.

  'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' she began. 'All right, just before he pushed off Black Jack was the soul of good manners, but you didn't see him when we were dancing together.'

  'No, I didn't,' Tweed admitted quietly.

  'He was drunk, behaving like an animal. Now you ask me to go and have a drink with him on my own in a bar. His story about knowing something about Adam Holgate is probably just that. A story, a fairytale.'

  'I'm inclined to agree,' said Newman. 'He's the biggest liar in town. Then there was that tripe about someone offering him ten thousand to rough up Tweed. He said that to get your attention. Comes outside and he's as nice as pie.'

  'My turn?' Tweed enquired quietly. 'I was watching him when he said he knew something about Holgate. I am supposed to be good at spotting when someone is lying. I don't think he was. He might just have information of a vital nature. He's the sort of chap who gets around. Paula, if you don't like the idea we'll drop it. You don't take any calls from him.'

  The cab driver was aware a row was going on. Newman saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror, glared at him. The driver looked away. Paula had quietened down, was staring at Tweed thoughtfully.

  'I suppose I could come with her to Marino's,' Newman suggested.

  'Won't work,' said Paula. 'He wants a girl he can have a drink with. Then - and only then - he might talk.'

  'Both of you think about it,' Tweed suggested. 'And I've just realized I stupidly gave the driver Park Crescent as our destination. Our first stopping point is Paula's flat in Fulham.' As he reached forward to slide back the glass to speak to the driver Paula's mobile phone buzzed.

  He waited while she answered it. Her conversation was short. She put away the mobile, looked at Tweed. 'You gave the right address. That was Monica asking us to go to the office. Something has happened but she wouldn't say what - not over a mobile phone.'

  Newman sighed, grinned wrily. 'Sounds like another crisis. Something tells me this is going to be a long night.'

  'Professor Saafeld called,' Monica told Tweed the moment he entered his office with the others at his heels. 'Asked you to contact him no matter what time of night it was.'

  'Get him on the line,' Tweed said as Paula took his coat.

  'Tweed here,' he began as he heard Saafeld's deep voice.

  'You know I occasionally attend a conference of pathologists in America?'

  'Yes.'

  'I take the International Herald Tribune, It has a long article in one issue on the murder at Pinedale in Maine . . .'

  'I know. Newman was talking about it this morning. I've read it.'

  'Then you may have noticed the autopsy on the victim, a man called Hank Foley, was carried about by a top medical examiner brought up from Boston. Dr Ramsey. We happen to be chums. All this goes back a few days ago. I called Ramsey and we compared notes. The upshot is he's sent me copies of the photos he took, plus X-rays. They came by Fed-Ex this evening. In return I've sent Ramsey copies of my photographs.'

  'So?'

  'I wouldn't be adamant. I didn't do the autopsy on Hank Foley. But, having studied all Ramsey sent me, compared his photos with mine, I'm pretty sure an axe was used to behead him. One very strong slicing blow just beneath the chin, and at the same angle.'

  'But is that conclusive?' Tweed persisted.

  'The razor-sharp blade used has a notch in it - same shape, same place as the blade used on Holgate. Have you a strong magnifier?'

  'Yes. One very like the one we peered through at your place. In Boffinland downstairs in the basement.'

  'Would you like me to Fed-Ex Ramsey's material to you?'

  'Yes, please. And thank you for calling me . . .'

  Once again the phone went dead. No wasted words from Professor Saafeld. Tweed put down the phone, told Newman and Paula what Saafeld had said, was doing.

  'Another random serial killer?' Newman snorted. 'One at the edge of the Thames, the other thousands of miles away across the Atlantic? It seems damned unlikely.'

  'Not a random serial killer,' Tweed contradicted. 'I am getting a feeling these murders are linked. That the victims had to be silenced at all costs because they knew some great secret.'

  5

  Tweed arrived back at his office at seven o'clock that evening. He found not only Monica waiting but also Paula and Newman. On his desk was a huge magnifying instrument and a package from Fed-Ex.

  'I resisted the temptation to open it,' Paula said.

  'I hope you didn't carry that magnifier up from the basement. It weighs a ton.'

  'I got Freddie to bring it up. You know he's as strong as an elephant. He wants to look at the photos himself. Not that he has a clue as to what they are.'

  'You can open up the package. I can tell you're dying to.'

  He sat at his desk while she struggled with the package, using a pair of scissors and her nimble fingers. A strong cardboard box eventually appeared and she prised off the lid. Typically Saafeld had enclosed the photos inside plastic envelopes with even stronger protection for the X-rays. Tweed selected the best pictures of the necks of Foley and Holgate and the result was grisly. Then he asked Monica to summon Freddie up from the basement.

  He arrived very quickly, a heavily built man over six feet tall with a dour expression which never changed. Tweed gave him two photos, one of Foley which was on better paper than the one of Holgate from Saafeld.

  'Freddie, this is top secret. No gossiping about any of this down in the underworld.'

  'Never tell them anything.'

  'You know how to fix the plate so we can study these two photos side by side.'

  Freddie inserted a large plate in a holder below a lens. He carefully placed the two photos in position, looking through another lens to adjust them. Then he stood back.

  'What do you think, Freddie?' Tweed asked. 'You may have noticed the stumps of the necks are very cleanly cut, but on one, at least, there's a ragged patch. As though the blade which did the job had a notch in it.'

  'I suggest, Mr Tweed, you look for yourself.'

  Tweed peered through the lens. He took several minutes studying what he saw. Then he straightened up, turned to Paula. 'Your turn now.'

  'Ugh!' was her first reaction. But she continued gazing through the lens. Her nerves were rattling inside but she forced herself to continue her examination. When she stood up she nodded at Tweed while Newman, with a sceptical expression, peered through the lens.

  'Freddie,' Tweed said suddenly, 'your opinion, please.'

  'A perfect match. This candidate -' he pointed at the photo of Foley's stump - 'had a thinner neck. Even so the blade has to be an axe. And whoever wielded it has to have plenty of s
trength. Especially to create such a neat cut.'

  For Freddie this was a long speech. Tweed thanked him and he left the room. What he had seen and heard was kept inside his head as though he had locked it in a safe. Newman stood up.

  'I do see what you mean,' he conceded.

  'Bravo for you,' Paula snapped.

  They spent the next half-hour examining the X-ray films sent from Boston. Paula had fetched up a special lamp from the basement, with which the strength of the light could be adjusted. The X-rays further confirmed the presence of a notch in the missing axe. Paula had carefully repacked everything inside the outer box when the phone rang.

  'It's Chief Superintendent Buchanan again,' Monica reported.

  'What can I do for you, Roy?'

  'It's what I can do for you. Hope you don't mind, but since I've been pushed firmly out of the picture I'm passing on to you tips I'd normally handle myself.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'I've been talking to a remarkable woman who helped me locate a murderer once. She sensed it was someone I hadn't even considered - and she was right. A Mrs Elena Brucan. I'll spell that . . .'

  'Sounds foreign,' Tweed commented as he wrote down the name.

  'She's from Romania and was standing outside the ACTIL building for a long time yesterday. She sensed something wrong.'

  'She's a spiritualist?' Tweed asked without enthusiasm.

  'No, she isn't. Never attended - or held - a seance in her life. She's very sensitive to people. No harm in seeing her. Can I give her your address, using Cumbria & General Assurance, of course?'

  'She's in London?'

  'Yes. Rented a flat not far from where I live. Would you say, eleven tomorrow morning - today - be all right for you?'

  'Yes, it would.'

  'And I've someone else I've used unofficially I could send to you.'

  'Tell me,' said Tweed, keeping the exasperation out of his voice.

  'Dr Abraham Seale, the well-known profiler. He helped me with another case. Located a top drug baron I'd thought was a respectable stockbroker. Three o'clock tomorrow afternoon any good?'

  'Agreed. And thank you, Roy, for trying to help. You're at home?'

  'Yes. If I called from the Yard there's a good chance my call would be monitored.'

  'What? I'm beginning to find this incredible considering who you are.'

  'Oh, there's more.' Buchanan chuckled without any hint of humour. 'Came home to my flat and noticed there were small scratches on both Banham locks on the front door. Alerted me, so I checked this phone I'm calling on. Someone had inserted a bug, no larger than a pinhead, glued in. Took it out before I called you. A friendly visit from Special Branch, I'm sure. I "flashed" the rest of the place and found it clean.'

  'This is iniquitous. Shouldn't you inform the Commissioner?'

  'What would be the good? The Home Secretary, the man he'd approach if he agreed, which I doubt, is the evil genius behind the net they've drawn round me. Probably round you too. Sorry to bother you so late - or early.'

  'Again, Roy, my grateful thanks for your help.'

  'Watch your back. Sleep well. I hope . . .'

  Tweed put down the phone, told Newman and Paula about the two people who would be coming to see him. Newman exploded.

  'Oh God! That's all we need. A spiritualist woman and a profiler. You don't like them.'

  'No,' said Tweed, 'I'm not happy about so-called profilers. They tell you the murderer is between the ages of twenty-five and forty, that it's a male and a white man who probably has a menial job. All of which gets me nowhere.'

  'I once attended a lecture by Dr Abraham Scale,' Paula commented. 'I went in a sceptical frame of mind but found he impressed me. He's shrewd and sensible, even if a bit odd.'

  'Can't wait,' snapped Newman.

  Tweed went on to tell them about Buchanan's experience in his flat. Paula looked stunned. Newman detonated again.

  'They're turning Britain into a police state. But it isn't the police who are doing it. I have the stench of Special Branch in my nostrils.'

  Marler walked in as he said this, still dressed in his smart outfit. He never seems to sleep, Tweed thought as Marler leaned against a wall close to Paula, lit one of his long cigarettes.

  'You could be right, Bob,' he remarked in his clipped tone. 'I've been roaming round contacting my informants. They won't talk for any amount of money. Not that Bob's Special Branch friends know my people, except for one. He told the thug in the grey suit who approached him to get stuffed. A cockney, of course. Same chap told me the news has been spread on the grapevine that anyone who opens his mouth will go behind bars for possession of drugs.'

  'All of which,' Tweed observed, 'confirms my suspicion that someone very high up is involved - at the very least concerned - about the Holgate murder. Now, we have a lot to do tomorrow.'

  'And I have my evening appointment for drinks at Marino's with Black Jack tomorrow,' Paula reminded him.

  'Not on your own?' asked Marler.

  'Just little me.'

  'I'll come with you,' Marler said. 'By which I mean I'll be there discreetly, watching. Black Jack is known to subject women to cruelty, both mental and physical.'

  Tweed caught her expression. Outright disapproval. She rightly regarded herself as a senior officer, capable of taking care of herself. She did not want a babysitter.

  'Thank you, Marler, for the suggestion,' Tweed told him. 'But I think Paula would sooner go on her own. Monica, you're leaving with us.'

  'I feel fresh, have a ton to get through.'

  'It will be there when you come in after a good night's sleep. That is an order.'

  Paula had stood up, was peering out into the night between two curtains she had pulled a fraction apart. She closed the curtains, turned round.

  'Thought you might like to know there's a man behind the wheel of a big grey Ford. He was gazing over here through a pair of field glasses.'

  Newman jumped up, clapped his hands. 'Feel like a bit of exercise, so we can shift him before we all leave. You go out the back way, I'll use the front door.'

  Back inside her bedroom in her flat Paula fell into a deep sleep. She had another nightmare. Roman Arbogast was advancing towards her, his face twisted into a hideous mask like the second picture Marienetta had painted.

  She was backing away from him but stayed in the same place. She felt for her .32 Browning in the special pocket inside her handbag looped over her shoulder, realized the weapon wasn't there. He was elevating the axe in his right hand when she woke up, screaming, her body covered in perspiration. She checked the time by her illuminated wristwatch. 3 a.m. She got up.

  'Hell and damnation, I had a shower before going to bed. Now I need another . . .'

  Tweed didn't try to sleep. Leaning against the pillows, arms behind his head, he checked over facts. No theories. Stick to the facts. He felt he was returning to his long ago role of Chief of Homicide at Scotland Yard. The two horrific beheadings - Hank Foley's in Maine and Adam Holgate's near Bray - had been committed with the same weapon, probably an axe. The photographs and X-rays Saafeld had sent him proved that. So logically the same killer had wielded the axe.

  The Arbogasts were a strange family. Roman seemed stable but tough. Sophie did not seem to have inherited his stability. She was subject to mood swings. Sometimes a sullen aggressiveness, then the buoyant vitality she had shown at the birthday party.

  Marienetta. Brilliant, with Roman's brains. Sophisticated. Different interests - painting, sculpture, administering the giant ACTIL. He had the impression she was taking to Paula, that the friendship was reciprocated. Funny if a woman solved this complex mystery.

  Black Jack Diamond. Where did he fit in? A rich man's son, often the black sheep in a family. But he'd struck out on his own. An unbalanced man where women were concerned - was this an important factor? Yet the two victims so far had both been men.

  A random serial killer on the loose? Tweed rejected the idea out of court. All his instincts
told him there was a link between the two murders. On the surface that seemed implausible. A caretaker in Maine, a security expert in London. He clung to his insistence that there was a link.

  Russell Straub. The vicious look he'd given Tweed when confronted across the table at the party. A dangerous man to cross. Of course! Tweed sat up straighter. The Vice-President was frightened of something, someone. What? Who? Why?

  Broden. He didn't know enough about him. Broden kept his thoughts mostly to himself. What was his history before he took on the big job at ACTIL? I must find that out, he said to himself. More than once, years ago, he'd found that it was the character who submerged himself who should be investigated. Sometimes with surprising results.

  Sam Snyder. A difficult man to read. As a reporter a wily fox. But when he'd gone over to look at the Turner painting on the wall at the office he'd treated Paula with a gentlemanly courtesy. His hawk-like visage had melted into an expression of kindness, his voice had softened. In a brief minute he had become a different personality. Men and women are so complex, Tweed thought.

  Now who had he missed out in his review of the characters involved in the unfolding grim drama? He couldn't think who it was as he sank into a deep undisturbed slumber.

  As he descended the steps into the street, slippery and wet, the next day, his new neighbour, an attractive and intelligent widow called Mrs Champion, came out of her doorway. She looked across and gave him a warm smile.