by Colin Forbes
'Then he should be easy to spot.' Tweed suggested.
'On the contrary. Most of the time it may well appear to be quite normal. It is not generally realized that we are all abnormal in some way. We do something and think: Why did I do that? A tinge of abnormality. There are degrees. When we have someone who decapitates people we have reached the ultimate. But don't imagine you can't have dinner with it without realizing what horrors lie beneath the surface.'
'Not a pleasant thought,' commented Tweed.
'It is, I am quite sure, very sly and cunning. An expert at mingling with fairly normal people so they have no inkling of what they are dealing with. Bundy, who raped and killed so many girls in the States, was able to do so because when he approached his victims he appeared so normal. The murder method is intriguing,' he went on as though discussing the merits of a meal. 'It has perfected an admirable technique - the neat slicing of the head off the neck just below the chin so the head is preserved in perfect condition. Concentrate on that and one day you may identify it. Or you may not.'
'Any more tips?' Tweed enquired, his eyes half-closed as he fiddled with his pen.
'Tips!' Scale was outraged. 'My dear sir, years of study of many specimens have gone into every word I utter. You have to exert your brain, imagine you are it. How would you go about exercising this brilliant technique?' He switched his gaze to Paula. 'Are you acquainted with the Wychwood Library?'
'Yes,' replied Paula staring straight at the dark eyes. 'But you have to be a member.'
'I am a member,' Tweed said quietly.
'Then,' said Scale, still gazing at Paula, 'use Tweed's card to borrow a copy of A History of Executions by Jonathan Wylie. Study the volume.' His gaze was stern. 'It may help you to understand it - how it operates. There is a factor no one has mentioned. I leave you to discover what it is.'
'It would help Miss Grey if she knew what she was looking for in the book,' Tweed suggested.
'No, it wouldn't,' Scale snapped again. 'She must find out for herself what Wylie's marvellous book tells her. And that man leaning against the wall over there,' he said referring to Marler, 'adopts that stance for a good reason.'
'What reason?' Tweed asked, not in the least put out by his strange visitor's appalling arrogance.
'He is a combat man. Sitting down would put him at a great disadvantage, if attacked. Standing up he is in a much stronger position to deal with any situation that arises.'
Scale stood up, stroked his cane, his gaze swept once more round the room. He turned to the door, not looking at Tweed.
'That is all I have to say. I have now done my duty by Roy Buchanan. Goodbye . . .'
* * *
'That is a character and a half,' Tweed mused when they were on their own.
'Like something out of Charles Dickens,' Newman commented. 'Doesn't belong to this age at all. Stuffed shirt.'
'I did found something he said very interesting,' Tweed replied.
'From now on I'm going to refer to this homicidal maniac as "it",' announced Paula. 'I think the word will help us to track it down.'
'Why?' Newman prodded her sceptically.
'Because the murderer is inhuman but will look human. Scale confirmed that. Referring to the killer as "it" will remind us of that fact, keep us on our guard.'
'I think Paula is right. A good idea,' agreed Tweed.
'He was right about one thing,' Marler interjected. 'I do lean against walls so my back is guarded. Shrewd of him to make that observation.'
'He's a crackpot,' Newman snapped. 'I wonder how he makes a living? That weird outfit he was wearing was new, must have cost a pretty penny.'
'I've just remembered,' Tweed remarked. 'Scale even goes to the States on lecture tours. I'm sure he rakes in the dollars. Dressed like that he'll be a raging success with his American audiences.'
'He believes in self-protection. That cane he wouldn't let me touch is, I'm sure, a formidable swordstick.'
'Swordstick?' Marler interjected again. 'Could you slice a head cleanly off a body with something like that?'
'It's a thought,' said Tweed. 'Scale is the sort of character you see once in a lifetime.'
'Don't agree,' said Newman. 'He was at Sophie's birthday party in full evening dress. At one of the tables near the back.'
'Don't miss much, do you?' commented Paula.
'Sam Snyder was also at that party,' Newman told her. 'He was also sitting at a table near the back.'
'Sam Snyder,' Tweed repeated, gazing out of the window. 'I still wonder why Elena took five pictures of Snyder but of no one else.'
8
Paula, armed with Tweed's library card, walked rapidly down Harley Street. Scale's late arrival had thrown out her whole schedule. She had looked for a taxi but, of course, when she really needed a cab there wasn't one anywhere. She had a very long walk to reach the Wychwood Library off St James Square. The weather was cold and she had slipped on a coat before leaving Park Crescent. The sky was pewter grey. So cheerful.
As she hurried along she found herself gazing at the people she passed. She thought, you look normal, but are you? Scale's personality had impressed itself on her mind. Eventually she crossed Piccadilly where people crammed the pavements. They all began to look abnormal to her. Stop it! she told herself.
Her first encounter with the receptionist, a middle-aged woman who kept sliding her glasses back up her nose, was not promising. Pale-faced and unsmiling the woman studied the card Paula had given her dubiously, then slowly gazed at her.
'You're a woman,' she began. 'This card is for a man.'
How damned observant of you, Paula fumed inwardly. Was this going to take for ever? She disliked this type of woman, who reminded her of a civil servant. She felt in her bag, found a General & Cumbria Assurance card, the cover name for the SIS.
'Call that phone number and Mr Tweed will confirm who I am. His personal assistant.'
'Line's engaged,' the dreary woman informed her after calling the number. 'If you'd like to sit over there I'll try again when I can.'
No good telling the old trout she was in a hurry. That would only slow her down even more. Paula sat on the couch, facing the desk from the far wall, placed her briefcase beside her. And I haven't got a book to pass the time, she thought. Not my day. Checking her watch she decided she'd have time to go to a deli for a little sustenance. Not too much. The tea at Brown's was a major event. I should have plenty of time to get to the hotel, she decided. I have to be there on time - she had summed up Marienetta as a tigress for punctuality - but I won't have time to change for drinks with Black Jack. I don't care. Why should I fuss about a man like that?
An old gentleman with grey hair had entered the hall. He stopped by the desk and began to engage the receptionist in a long conversation. So no quick second attempt to phone Tweed. Someone was walking down the upper steps on his way out. Dr Scale, erect as a martinet. The receptionist said 'Excuse me,' to the grey-haired man and stood up.
'I hope you found what you needed, Dr Scale.'
Nice to be royalty here, Paula thought. Scale took not a blind bit of notice of the receptionist. Instead he swivelled to his right, bowed, took the seat next to Paula on the side away from her briefcase. She felt stunned. He placed a hand on hers, squeezed it gently.
'How very gratifying to find someone who not only listens to me but acts swiftly on my suggestion.'
'Which is exactly what I am doing. Do you travel much, Dr Scale?'
'A great deal, my dear. I have recently returned from the United States.'
'Which part?'
'New England. The weather was disgusting. Icicles were hanging from the gutters of their wooden houses. And they think they do things better than anyone else. I ask you. They don't seem to have heard of brick. But they are a warm friendly people.'
His severe expression had again softened. He smiled as he gazed at her. What a weird mix you are, she was thinking. Normal and abnormal? He wished her luck and stood up to go. The receptionist
was again on her feet, calling out to him. He walked out without a word or a glance in her direction.
At long last the grey-haired man stopped talking, wandered up the steps into the library. Paula was marching grimly back to the desk as the receptionist picked up the phone. This time she got straight through. More twittering from the middle-aged woman, a request for a description of Paula. A voice at the other end, Tweed's, rose loudly.
'For God's sake, woman, I'm a member. Give Miss Grey the go-ahead . . .'
Paula was walking up the steps before the receptionist had time to speak to her. She began her arduous search for Jonathan Wylie's tome, A History of Executions. No attendants were to be seen to help her. She began with the huge section on Domestic History, which was not arranged in alphabetical order. No luck. By pure chance she eventually found the volume in Medieval Agriculture. Someone had put it back in the wrong place.
She ran back down the steps, saw with relief no customer was standing in front of the receptionist. She placed her card and the precious volume on the desk.
'I am in a hurry now,' she said pleasantly.
A blank stare. 'We have a very meticulous record system.'
A large leather-bound ledger was opened. The receptionist explained as she slowly wielded a pen. Everything had to be noted. Name, address of the borrower, membership number, date, title, author and the book's number. Paula stood very still, her stomach quietly rumbling with hunger. She'd have given anything for a drink of water. The pen kept on scrawling at a snail's pace. After what seemed hours the receptionist handed Paula the volume.
'You do understand,' she said in her toneless voice, 'you have to take great care of the book. You see, it is our only—'
Paula snapped. 'You saw me place the bloody thing inside my briefcase!'
She stormed out and it was dark. She made her way to Piccadilly, walked into a sandwich bar, ordered two toasted teacakes and a cup of tea. Had to leave space for the corning orgy at Brown's. Before her hands became greasy she took out the volume, glanced quickly through it. Full of ancient text which she felt she'd be able to decipher - and a lot of the most horrific drawings illustrating what they did to people in those days. Including the execution of Charles I. She slipped it back into the briefcase as tea arrived.
By hurrying after her modest meal she reached Brown's at 5.45 p.m. No sign of Marienetta. She'd beaten her to it. A quick trip to the ladies' to tidy up, then back up to the lobby. A minute later, at 5.55 p.m., Marienetta walked in, wearing a smart blue two-piece business suit, a white blouse buttoned to the collar and a pair of Ferragamo shoes.
'Why don't we collaborate on investigating this brutal murder of Adam Holgate?' Marienetta asked Paula in her direct manner.
They were seated in the second lounge, where you could smoke after six. Marienetta had already lit up after offering a cigarette to Paula, which she declined. No one was near them so they could really talk.
'Might be a good idea if we exchanged some information,' Paula said cautiously.
'Right, me first. I didn't like him. I didn't trust him. Broden thought he was a jewel, but Adam had a way of getting round people. Even a brute like Broden.'
'What caused your mistrust?'
'Mind if I eat and talk at the same time?' Marienetta suggested as the cake stand, a four-decker, was laid in front of them. 'Bad manners, I know, but I haven't eaten since breakfast. Why? I found out Adam was poking his nose into departments that had nothing to do with him. Once I caught him photographing some highly personal records. He slipped the camera into his pocket when he realized I was close. I challenged him and he turned so aggressive - a tactic. Swore it was a tobacco tin I'd seen. He did smoke a pipe. I didn't make an issue of it because at that moment Broden walked in, but I ordered the guard on the door to search him when he left. That happens at times. The clever so-and-so hadn't got the camera on him - probably hidden it in a locked drawer. But I'm damned sure he had the film in his socks or somewhere.'
'So you think he was a spy?'
Marienetta gave a ravishing smile. 'Not for you, I hope.'
'Certainly not. When he worked for us Tweed banished him to Communications in a building further down the Crescent.' She felt she had to contribute something. 'Howard, our Director, hired him while Tweed was away.'
Marienetta smiled again. 'He'd never have got past Tweed. I met Howard at a party. A nice man but without a tenth of Tweed's brains.'
'He's very good at smoothing down high-ranking civil servants, very at home in Whitehall.'
'Where again they haven't a tenth of Tweed's brains. We exist, even prosper, in spite of our lousy government. I once talked to a Foreign Office diplomat about Laos. He hadn't a clue where Laos was.' Marienetta spoke very fast, chuckled a lot.
'Why do you think Holgate was roaming around near Abbey Grange, Roman's country house near Bray?' Paula asked.
'No goddamn idea. Roman decided he'd blundered, buying that old pile to entertain businessmen from abroad. It's empty. I tell him he should sell the place, take what he can get for it. He says he will. In due course when he's not so busy. What do the autopsy records on Holgate show?'
'No idea. Colonel Crow won't let us see them.'
'Colonel Crow. A pompous pig. Crawls to anyone who can do him some good. Met him once. He complimented me on what I was wearing. I'd just thrown on an old rag. Is Tweed still investigating the Holgate murder?' she asked quickly.
Watch it, Paula warned herself. 'He does have a lot of other problems to attend to,' she replied.
Marienetta smiled cynically. 'I can see why you are the key member of Tweed's staff. Long ago, like met like.'
'Where did Holgate live?'
'In some dump somewhere in Pimlico. Since he took it over the value has soared. He was boasting to me about it. Adam loved money. I spotted that when I interviewed him for the post in security at ACTIL. Broden overruled my doubts and anyway the job was for his department.'
'You said at the party you flew to America now and again. When was your last trip?'
'A few weeks ago,' Marienetta said tersely.
'And you also said Sophie flies over there. When was she last there?'
'A few weeks ago. We didn't fly together. Sophie would think I was keeping an eye on her.'
'And where did you fly to a few weeks ago?'
'Boston.'
* * *
Leaving Marienetta, who was calling a cab, Paula had to walk rapidly once more to Marino's. Due to meet Black Jack Diamond at 7 p.m., she knew she could just make it if she kept moving. Her legs were beginning to ache.
Entering the dimly lit street leading through to Piccadilly, she paused just beyond an alley to smooth down her jacket under her coat. The single street lamp cast her shadow in front of her. Suddenly she realized there was a second shadow, very still, tall, wearing a hat, behind her.
The hat, a man's, was wide-brimmed, possibly Spanish. She froze. The street was otherwise deserted. Then she recalled hearing a car stop by the kerb near the entrance to the side street. Shadow was now tailing her on foot. An ominous development. Whoever had followed her had been caught out by her suddenly stopping to tidy herself. Now Shadow's sinister outline was motionless, almost alongside her own shadow. He was very close to Paula. Her throat was dry with fear.
Then her brain accelerated. She was carrying the briefcase in her left hand, her handbag looped over her right shoulder. With one sudden movement her right hand dipped inside her handbag, gripped the .32 Browning in its special pocket. Her left hand propped the briefcase against the wall, she was swinging round, the Browning gripped in both hands.
Shadow had disappeared. Down inside the narrow alley. The only way it could have vanished so quickly. Don't peer round a corner. She heard in her mind the warning words of Sarge, the man who had trained her at the mansion in Surrey with its acres of grounds.
With her finger resting lightly on the trigger, she jumped forward, faced down the alley. Nothing. She had half expected this. A sh
ort way into the murky alley it turned a corner, blotting out what lay beyond. She wasn't going down there.
She walked back, picked up the briefcase, walked back swiftly to the main street. Just beyond the entrance a brilliant red MG was parked. Brand new. Realizing she was going to be late for her appointment, she walked back into the side street, the Browning still in her hand, concealed under her coat. She walked quickly past the alley. Damn! She hadn't noticed the licence number of the red MG. Too late now.
As she entered Marino's the Browning was back inside its special pocket. The hat-check girl took her coat but Paula kept the briefcase. The absurd ordeal of obtaining the volume inside it made her decide to hang on to it come hell or high water.
Marino's was a large square room with a long bar against the left wall. The only occupant was Black Jack, seated at a table by the bar with a drink in front of him. December and the weather, which was getting colder still, would stop people from coming out.
Black Jack stood up in the aisle, arms held out to embrace her. She evaded him, smiling, slipping into the banquette opposite where he had been sitting. He waved his arms in a futile gesture to express his disappointment at her stand-offishness, sat down facing her.
'I thought you weren't coming,' he said with a broad smile.
'I got held up. Gave you time to have a few drinks.'
