by Colin Forbes
He held up his glass, which was half full. Scotch, she guessed. 'This, Paula, is my first drink. What is yours?'
'A glass of Chardonnay, please.'
The barman heard her and a glass was in front of her in no time. She raised it, clinked glasses with him. Do relax, she told herself. You want him to talk. He might just have valuable information. And he's very sober.
'You're investigating the murder of the late Mr Holgate,' he began, making it a statement.
'What on earth leads you to that conclusion?'
'Your reputation. You never give up. Like Tweed.'
'Only when we have started,' she evaded.
'Excuse me a moment,' he said looking towards the door.
He ran, and because he left the door open she saw what happened outside. He grabbed hold of Nathan Morgan by the collar of his astrakhan coat. He pushed him against the wall, twisting the collar.
'What the hell are you doing, Nathan, spying on me?'
'Lemme go,' Morgan croaked. 'Have you arrested . . .'
'Make a great headline in the press,' Black Jack shouted. 'Gestapo operating in Britain. Paris will love it. So get well away from here. Now! Don't want to see your ugly mug ever again . . .'
Paula turned round. Beyond the net-curtained windows she could see Morgan tugging at his collar, feeling his throat as he stumbled off. Black Jack was calm when he sat again in his seat.
'Special Branch do have a lot of power,' she warned.
'So does the press abroad. The Americans would lap it up. Your Bob Newman could set Whitehall alight. Now, where were we?'
'You were going to tell me something important about Adam Holgate.'
'He was getting a pile of money from somewhere. Far more than could come from his ACTIL salary.'
'How do you know that?' she asked.
'He'd roll into Templeton's, my gambling house in Mayfair. He'd buy chips worth five hundred pounds or more. Play with the lot. Win a bit, then lose the lot. He was an addict when it came to gambling. A few nights later he'd turn up with more cash, buy the chips, play the lot, lose the lot. The source of his funds must have dried up. One night he came in and asked me for a loan. I turned him down. He looked grim, said he'd get it from somewhere. That was the night before he lost his head. Excuse me - rather nasty pun.'
'I see.' Paula sipped her drink. 'Any idea what the source was?'
'None at all.' He gave her the wide grin which knocked over most women. 'Occurred to me he could be blackmailing someone. If so, maybe that's why he ended up the way he did.'
'Did you like him?'
'I did not. He could be nasty. When he lost he started using foul language. I had to tick him off, warn him that if he did that again he wouldn't be allowed into the club.'
'Anything else you can tell me about him?' she pressed.
'Nope.' He grinned again. 'When we've finished our drinks it's time you had a little relaxation. Have dinner with me at Santorini's. They have a terrace projecting out over the Thames. I'm known there. We'll get a great table.'
'I can't. I have another date,' she lied.
The grin vanished as though wiped off his face with a cloth. He finished his drink, looked around the place. He was thinking what his next move would be, she guessed.
'I'll drive you back to Park Crescent,' he decided, standing up. 'My car's parked outside.'
'That's very kind of you,' she said, thinking quickly. Car parked outside?
They walked out, turned left, went past the alley where the Shadow had vanished earlier. Entering the main street he walked over to a parked red MG which had a ticket on it. He was opening the door for her when she flagged down a cab coming down the street.
'Thank you for the drink,' she called out. 'I've changed my mind. A cab will get me there quickly.'
'Ladies have this habit,' he called back in a sneering tone. 'Change their minds like the cue ball on a snooker table.'
As the taxi proceeded at speed with very little traffic in the way she thought hard. Vaguely she recalled other cars parked further up the street, any one of which could have been the one she'd heard. Could Shadow have been Diamond? He might have nipped across the street, hidden in another alley, then sidled swiftly into Marino's? Seemed unlikely, but not impossible. Then there was Nathan Morgan. Was he tall enough to have thrown that sinister shadow she'd seen? She wasn't sure. It was unsettling.
9
The huge United Airlines Boeing was well out over the Atlantic. Flying first class, Tweed with Paula and Newman were comfortable and their flight was half empty, so they could talk without risk of being overheard.
Knowing Tweed's dislike of flying, Paula had insisted he took a Dramamine pill in the departure lounge. It was dark outside and Paula rarely looked through the window by her side. This, she decided, was a good chance to report what had happened the day before.
'I collected that volume Dr Seale suggested. It's with me. The funny thing was that while I was waiting for ever to get into the library who should walk down the steps? You won't guess. Dr Abraham Seale. He chatted with me for a short time. Was very nice.'
'He couldn't have been,' Newman remarked, speaking across Tweed. They were sharing a spacious three-seater.
'During tea with Marienetta,' she went on, 'she suggested we collaborate on investigating Holgate's murder. As you know she is a trained detective.'
'I should watch that,' Tweed warned.
'She's a very clever woman,' Newman remarked.
'I should still watch it. What about Black Jack Diamond?'
She told him everything that had happened, had been said, since she'd left Brown's. Tweed looked perturbed when she told him about Shadow.
'You must be very careful while we're engaged on this case. All of us must be. The killer is ruthless and cunning.'
'Case?' queried Paula. 'Anybody would think you were back at the Yard.'
'In a way I am, in my thinking. Surprising the way all that experience comes flooding back. I can do without DNA and all the rest of it. If you just listen to people they'll tell you what they're really like without realizing what they are doing. It's called egotism. And we may already have met the killer.'
'You have a suspect?' Paula probed.
'No. It's far too early.'
A following wind landed them ahead of schedule. Even so it was a rush to find and board the commuter flight which would take them north to Portland.
Earlier Tweed had warned them both to leave all the talking to him. Paula had queried the wisdom of travelling under their own names. Tweed had told her this was a very tricky expedition they were undertaking, that if their stealthy trip to Pinedale was discovered later it would be safer if they had travelled using their real passports.
As the commuter aircraft took off from Boston, Paula peered out into the night. Below them the city was a galaxy of lights and a few ships on the Charles River showed up at their bows and sterns. Otherwise the Charles was a huge black snake making its way inland.
It took them less than an hour to fly to Portland. The further north they went the more plantations of evergreens Paula saw spreading out below, their green nearer to black in the moonlight. Then they were descending with white surf bordering the coast to her right. Several fishing vessels were moored in the harbour.
'Who are we contacting?' she asked.
'My CIA friend, Cord Dillon, told me over the phone we should reach the Chief of Police, Andersen, as soon as we left the airport here. Bumpity-bump. We're down.'
Andersen led them out of the headquarters building into the night. To escort them the short distance to the waiting police car he had thrown on a shabby old fur coat. Paula understood why. As in Boston, the air was raw, a biting cold which froze her face, but it seemed even worse in Portland.
No one had known anything about the hire car Monica had ordered. Andersen had said it didn't matter - he'd a police car and driver who could take them down to Pinedale but they would have to find transport to bring them back.
> 'I guess you folks chose the wrong time of the year to come over here,' he commented. 'And the forecast is for a big storm to come in from the Atlantic.'
'Seems very quiet,' Paula replied, 'here in town.' 'Folks are battening down for the storm.' Andersen was a businesslike giant, well over six feet tall. He had expected their arrival, had wasted no time taking them out to the car where a driver sat behind the wheel. Very few people were about and those who were hustled along the pavements, well muffled up.
The car waiting for them was a battered old Ford. Across the front of the roof was the transparent box with red and blue lights lit up. An aerial which had seen better days projected at a slanting angle. Andersen made quick introductions.
'Driver is Sam. He'll take you there. Then that's it.' 'Thank you, Chief Andersen,' said Tweed. 'Sam has to get back here fast. A team is checking out a big robbery. It needs Sam to kick their asses to keep them moving.' He glanced at Paula. 'Excuse me, Ma'am.'
Tweed sat with the driver while Paula and Newman occupied the back. Then they were moving. Soon out of Portland, Sam pressed his foot down, his headlights gleaming on the blacktop ahead of them, now passing through open country.
Paula started out excited. This was an adventure. Like Newman she had let Tweed do the talking when they passed through Customs in Boston.
'Business or pleasure?' the impassive officer had asked.
'Business,' Tweed had replied.
'Profession?'
'Security adviser.'
Nothing more. Tweed had thought what a tremendous contrast to entering New York. He'd endured an hour-long trudge as a crocodile of passengers slowly reached freedom. Surly questions before he hurried to find a cab.
The blacktop stretched out of sight before them while Sam sat hunched behind his wheel, saying nothing to Tweed, not giving him a glance. Then they entered the forests. Walls of fir trees so high Paula could not see their tops hemmed them in on both sides. Her sense of adventure evaporated. She began to feel claustrophobic. The blacktop climbed crests so you couldn't see what lay on the other side until the car popped over the top, descended the far side. No other traffic. Occasionally there was a break in the wall of firs where she had a glimpse of a logging track vanishing round a curve. Didn't anyone live in this eerie wilderness? she wondered. Then they passed a large gap in the forest on her side. In the open space she saw a red barn, the colour gleaming in a shaft of moonlight. It must have been recently painted. Someone did live somewhere.
The weather was changing. A fleet of low dark clouds sailed in from the sea. Sam glanced up, made no comment. He had a face which reminded her of a squirrel, a police cap rammed down over his forehead. She wanted to ask 'How much further?' but remembered what Tweed had said, so kept her mouth shut.
Sam was slowing down, the fir trees Were thinning out. He suddenly swung off the highway up a track of granite chippings. Space opened out. Perched on a small hill was a two-storey clapboard building badly in need of fresh paint. A railed porch ran along the front and several wooden rails had collapsed. Shingles had been blown off the roof. Behind smeared windows, beyond the top of wooden steps leading up to the porch, lights glowed on the lower floor. Somebody isn't bothered much about appearances, Paula said to herself. The car stopped several yards away from the flight of rickety steps between the wooden rails. Sam suddenly became voluble.
'Deputy Parrish is inside there,' he said in a distinct accent. 'Doubt you'll find him very cooperative. Sea is over there behind the police headquarters. Hear that wind?'
Paula became aware of a strange swishing sound. Looking back to the edge of the forest she saw the huge trees swaying slowly. It was a disturbing sight.
'Storm's close,' Sam continued. 'A buster's comin', they say. One helluva a murder took place near here recently. The killer chopped off the head, dumped the corpse damn near into the ocean. Head's still missing He made a funny sound which Paula realized was a chuckle. 'Why'd he want the head? Maybe collects them. Gotta get back now. Andersen is tough but fair.' He waited while they got out, leaned his head out of the window. 'Jed, Parrish's helper, might drive you back to Portland.'
'That's so hopeful,' Paula said to herself as biting cold entered her lungs.
The wind was rising more dangerously while Sam waited for them to reach the foot of the steps. Paula wondered why he was waiting. Suddenly Sam gunned his engine, swung the car round in a mad swerve of a hundred and eighty degrees. Chippings were hurled everywhere and Paula realized why he had waited - for them to be far enough away. With mixed feelings she watched his red tail-lights vanish back along the highway. She had a depressing feeling of isolation.
'Let's get on with it,' said Tweed briskly, full of energy. 'The rail's shaky,' he warned as he mounted the steps to the porch. Reaching a large door he turned the handle and bounced inside. Paula wondered how he managed it.
Beyond the door was a large room with a wooden board floor. Behind an ancient desk near the far wall a man in his fifties sagged in a large wicker chair, his booted feet resting on top of an old desk. Untidy brown hair covered his large head, streaks plastered to his forehead. He had small piggy eyes above a fleshy nose and below that a hard mouth and jowls. He was fat and his old soiled red check shirt was rolled up to his elbows, exposing ham-like flesh; his gut protruded well beyond a leather belt low down on his stomach. His full-cheeked face was red as a setting sun. Tweed guessed the source of the redness was the bottle of beer held in his right hand. He upended the bottle and swallowed several times.
'Deputy Parrish?' Tweed asked as Paula and Newman hurried in behind him, closing the door.
A wave of heat had met them tinged with a stench of beer. Parrish hammered the empty bottle hard down on the desk, stirred so now they could see his gun belt with a holster and a revolver protruding from it. Paula felt faint with the sudden change from icy cold to stuffy heat. Taking off a glove, she dug her nails into the palm of the hand. The pain helped.
'Yeah, I'm Parrish. The law round 'ere. The only law it's got. You Tweed?'
'Yes.' He introduced his companions. Parrish ignored Newman, was leering at Paula. Tweed started to move forward and Parrish spoke again.
'On your way over 'ere you might put another log in the stove. Keep the lady's legs warm, although she's keeping me warm.'
'I'll do the fire,' another voice suggested. Tweed was picking up two logs, walking over to place them in the open stove, which was roaring. Humour the old brigand - but only so far.
Paula was smiling at the much younger man who had offered to help. His grey check shirt and blue denims were spotless. He looked physically strong, had thick corn-coloured hair, good features and a nice smile. Parrish burped, then growled at the younger man.
'She's not for you, Jed. You'd have to get past Tweed and the tough guy he's brought with him.'
'If you don't mind, Mr Parrish,' Paula snapped, 'I would like to sit down until I get used to the heat in here.'
'Of course!' Parrish dragged three wicker chairs from the side of the room, placed them in front of his desk. He waved a stubby-fingered hand with dirt under the nails for her to sit down. 'Jed,' he called out as she sat down, 'we're forgettin' our manners.'
He placed a hand on her arm, bending over her so she had a stronger acquaintance with beer fumes. 'There, are we comfortable now?'
She grasped his hand, removed it from her arm. Parrish was obviously surprised at the strength she displayed. Tweed, seated, had had enough. He leaned towards the Deputy who had returned to his own chair.
'You were here when Hank Foley's body was found?'
'You might say I oversaw the operation.'
'How was he found? I presume you know that since the murder happened within your jurisdiction. I need data.'
'Well, in that case, maybe you ought to have a nice chat with Jed over there. Later on. He found the corpse. Didn't find the head though, did you, Jed? Sure you didn't drop it when you'se was 'elpin' the Portland team to use ropes to haul it up?'
/>
'You know perfectly well I didn't,' replied Jed with an edge to his voice. 'And it wasn't a joking business.'
'Then take 'em out, show 'em where you found Mr Missing 'Bad.'
'Is your investigation into the crime proceeding?' Tweed demanded. 'If so, how far have you got? I need details.'
'Takes time,' Parrish mumbled as Paula glanced round the room, noticing the contrast between Jed's desk in a corner, with an old Remington typewriter, and neatly arranged piles of reports, and the mess Parrish had created. His desk was covered with papers scattered at all angles, the marks of the bottom of beer bottles staining them. Stacks of files, almost toppling, were shoved against the walls.
Tweed stood up. He'd decided they would get nowhere with Mr Parrish. He wasn't doing a thing about the Foley case.
'I'd like Jed to take us immediately to where he discovered the corpse. We're short of time.'
'I can drive you there now,' Jed said, on his feet as he put on a windbreaker, zipped it up. 'Be there in five minutes at the outside.'
'Then let's go,' said Tweed.
Parrish stumbled to his feet, followed them as Jed walked quickly outside. He led them down the steps and headed for the back of the house. The icy cold stabbed into them like a knife. Parrish stood in the open doorway, called after them.
'You're gonna have a mighty long walk back to Portland.' As he turned back into the house he held a fresh bottle of beer by the neck. At the top of his voice he laughed, almost choking.
'My car's round the back,' Jed explained. 'Anything you want to know you just ask.' The storm wind battered them as they turned a corner. Jed ran back, took Paula by the arm. 'You were nearly blown over there. You'll get used to it.'
