Vorpal Blade

by Colin Forbes

  Tweed again glanced at Paula. The smile had disappeared. The idea that she should be guarded certainly did not appeal to her.

  'Could you be a bit more specific?' Tweed suggested. 'Who is menacing her?'

  'I'm sorry. I have no idea of where the danger comes from. But danger there is.'

  'I'll bear it in mind and thank you.' He paused. 'We have studied the photos you kindly gave us. Why, in one case only, that of Sam Snyder, did you take his picture no less than five times?'

  'My camera.' She gave him a wide glowing smile. 'I was convinced it wasn't working properly, so I kept taking photos of the same man.'

  The first fib. Tweed didn't believe her. She was concealing something. Maybe because she was not yet sure of her grounds. Taking hold of her embroidered bag, she stood up.

  'I can see how much work you have on your desk. I hope that I haven't wasted too much of your time.'

  'As I said before, you have not wasted a moment.'

  'And you will come and see me sometime? You have my address, my phone number.'

  'We shall meet again,' responded Tweed warmly. He meant it.

  Their guest thanked Monica for the coffee, told her it was the best she had ever tasted. Paula escorted her down to the front door.

  'She's done it again,' commented Monica. 'She's gone but her presence is still here.'

  'It's very strange. She really is the most extraordinary lady.'

  Paula returned with Newman and Marler in tow. Marler took up his stance by the wall, near Paula. He lit a long cigarette as Newman flopped into an armchair.

  'How did it go?' Tweed asked. 'You both look flaked out.'

  'We've interrogated a lot of snitches,' Marler reported. 'I kept out of the way while Bob was talking to one of his and he followed the same procedure.'

  'And the result?' Tweed demanded impatiently.

  'Zilch. Zero. Nothing,' Marler said grimly. 'We walked into a wall of silence. Several took to the hills. I have never known anything like it. I did get a hint from one man that Special Branch have been hyper-active - spreading the word in the underworld that anyone who talks will find himself up on a drugs charge, for possession of heroin.'

  'The damned fools are giving themselves away all along the line,' commented Tweed. 'It has to be a very big secret the government is worried about to issue such orders. It will take me two more days to get through Howard's junk. Then I will decide what to do to blast the thing wide open. I just hope I get no more visitors while I get on with it.'

  Tweed, with Paula's help, worked steadily. They had cleared up everything at the end of two days. But there was one more visitor.

  In addition to Newman, Paula and Marler, Tweed had summoned two more key members of his staff for a meeting on the evening of the second day. Harry Butler walked in, followed by Pete Nield. The contrast between the two men was striking but they had often worked together as partners, each trusting the other totally in situations which turned hairy.

  Harry Butler was five feet five tall, his body bulky, his approach to a problem aggressive. In his thirties, he had a round head like a cannonball, which was a deadly weapon if he butted an opponent with it. He wore shabby jeans, a windcheater which had seen better days. In the East End he had often passed as a local.

  Pete Nield, of a similar age, was a complete contrast. Good-looking, he had a neat moustache and wore a smart blue suit, a new blue shirt and a powder-blue tie. Popular with the ladies, and always smartly dressed, he nevertheless had not quite the flair for clothes possessed by Marler. Five feet eight tall, his slim build had several times encouraged a thug to think he was easy meat. The thug had always ended up painfully sprawled on the ground.

  'Now strategy in this strange case,' Tweed began. 'We are peering into a fog . . .'

  It was the signal for the phone to ring. Tweed swore under his breath. Monica was asking George, the guard downstairs, several questions before she looked at Tweed.

  'An American, Ed Danvers, is wanting to see you. Won't say why. Says it's top secret.'

  'Tell him to go away.'

  'He also said he's FBI. Showed George his badge.'

  Tweed sat very still. Paula could almost hear the wheels of his brain moving at top speed as he considered this highly unexpected development. He looked round at everyone, standing, seated in the room.

  'You all stay where you are. This FBI man is on his own?' he asked Monica. She nodded. 'Most unusual. They nearly always travel in pairs. Ask him to come up.'

  Paula stared at the door. She knew what to expect. A dour-faced man in a grey suit. The uniform. Instead a tall man wearing a sand-coloured suit which matched his thick tidy hair, walked in. Thirty-something, Paula thought he was good-looking. A good forehead, grey eyes beneath sandy eyebrows, a strong nose and mouth, his smooth face was creased in a gentle smile.

  'Please sit down, Mr Danvers,' Tweed invited him, his tone neutral.

  'Hi, everyone.' The smile took in everyone. He had a raincoat folded over his arm and Monica relieved him of it. He sat down in an armchair, his movements lithe, gazed across the desk.

  'Mr Tweed, I assume?'

  'You assume correctly. Just over from the the States?'

  'No, sirree. I'm with the FBI detachment permanently stationed at our Embassy. Been here six months so far.'

  'I thought you were probably attached to the Vice-President's staff.'

  'I have shown him round your unique city, but not any more.'

  'Why not?'

  'Mr Straub flew to Europe two days ago.'

  'Whereabouts in Europe?' Tweed asked swiftly.

  'No idea. He didn't say. So I didn't ask.'

  'Of course not,' Tweed said cynically.

  'I really have no idea where he flew to.' Danvers leant forward to say this emphatically. He had caught the scepticism in Tweed's voice. 'He is his own man.'

  'You know nothing about Europe, then?' Tweed continued brusquely.

  'Actually, sir, I've travelled a lot in Europe. A great continent.'

  Tn that case he should have taken you with him. I doubt he's ever been there before.'

  'He hasn't.'

  'Most curious. Why have you come to see me?'

  'It's rather confidential.' He looked round at the crowded room.

  'Every single person in my office has worked with me for a long time. They are trusted - highly trusted -professionals. If you have anything to say you say it now or I shall be obliged to ask you to leave.'

  'They said you were tough . . .'

  'Who did?'

  'Folks at the Embassy. Only one man knows I've come here to see you.'

  'And that is?'

  'The Ambassador.' He continued when Tweed just stared at him. 'Could we relax, sir?' Danvers leaned forward again. 'The Ambassador is very concerned about your sneak trip to Maine.'

  'Sneak? What the devil do you mean? If I have visited Maine it would have been under my own name. The word verges on insulting.'

  'I'm sorry, sir. I really am. The word was the Ambassador's. I personally would never have used the word. I am truly sorry.'

  Because she liked the look of Danvers Paula was feeling sympathetic towards him. Tweed was being relentless, firing questions like bullets. But it had been stupid to use the word 'sneak'.

  'Now we've sorted that out,' Tweed resumed in a genial mood, 'what is it the Ambassador hoped you'd be able to tell him?'

  'That you weren't involved in investigating the murder of Hank Foley, the caretaker brutally murdered in Pinedale.'

  'How could I be involved?' Tweed smiled. 'Pinedale is in Maine? So how does this Ambassador think I can investigate something which happened over two thousand miles away when I'm sitting in London?'

  'It does stretch the imagination.' Danvers glanced across at Paula and he was smiling. 'And it's not like the Ambassador to pry into British organizations,' he remarked, staring across the desk.

  'Russell Straub has taken bodyguards with him on his trip to the Continent?' Tweed enquired c
asually.

  'No.' Danvers paused. 'Well, you've brought the subject up. He's travelled alone. Despite the protests of our security people. He's trawling the Continent to get acquainted with the key people over there.'

  'The beginning of his campaign to be the next President?'

  'Some people might say that. Thank you for your time, sir. I think it's time I took my departure.'

  'Paula,' Tweed called out, 'maybe you'd escort our guest to the front door . . .'

  Marler winked at Newman who was grinning, then laughing so much he had to take out his handkerchief.

  'Do share the joke,' Tweed suggested.

  'You spotted Paula likes our American visitor - and Mr Danvers was not averse to her charms. You manipulated that, in the hope Danvers will sooner or later provide her with valuable information about the inner workings of the American Embassy.'

  Paula returned before Tweed could reply. She closed the door, stood in front of his desk, her arms folded. Her expression was not friendly.

  'Ed - Danvers - asked me to go out and have a drink with him sometime.'

  'Well . . .' Tweed was looking down at a file on his desk. 'He is well-mannered, has a pleasant personality, is likeable.'

  'I'm the bait,' she snapped. 'You hope I'll extract information from him about what goes on inside their Embassy.' She was furious. 'You're a cunning old fox.'

  'I object to the word old,' Tweed said mildly.

  'I'm right. Damn it! Tell me to my face. Am I right?'

  He looked up, stared straight at her. 'You hit the bull's-eye.' His voice was serious. 'You don't ever have to meet Danvers for drinks if you don't want to. But his visit told us a lot. The Ambassador doesn't normally pry into a British organization. So he was asked to. By whom? I've no doubt the instigator of Danvers's visit came from the Vice-President pressuring the Ambassador before he flew to Europe. And why has Russell Straub flown to the Continent alone? Not just to show the flag. If that was the reason he could have taken a dozen bodyguards with him.'

  'Pm sorry I blew my top,' Paula replied, then went to her desk. 'But I'm feeling sort of jittery from two days ago. It's silly, but I wish I could pinpoint what triggered it off.'

  'Don't worry about it,' Tweed told her gently. 'We did have a lot of people and incidents of an unpleasant nature crammed into those two days.'

  He sighed as the phone rang again. Monica answered it, then called across urgently to Tweed.

  'Chief Inspector Arthur Beck of the Swiss Federal Police wants to talk to you. He sounded very serious and in a great rush. I think something has happened.'

  14

  'A third headless body has been found, at Montreux.'

  Tweed had spent several minutes on the phone with his old friend Arthur Beck. He had asked the occasional question, which Paula had attempted without success to fit into a conversation. Now she was stunned by what Tweed had announced. Everyone in the office was silent. Paula was the first to break the heavy silence.

  'In Switzerland now. First in Maine, then out at Bray. And now Switzerland. The geographical span is enormous. Whose body is it?'

  'No identification yet. Beck was talking quickly so I only got a fragmented picture. I gather the body was found at the edge of the lake. Something about a pick-boat.'

  'Could it have been pic-bot?' suggested Paula, who was fluent in French.

  'Yes, it did sound like that.'

  'Then I saw it once when I was in Montreux. It's like a large barge without a deck. It has sloping sides descending to the base. Two men were using it to claw out of the lake debris which had floated in. Branches of trees, leaves, all kinds of rubbish. They had tools like huge rakes to haul it aboard.'

  'So the serial murderer is operating on different continents,' Newman commented.

  'I'm sure,' Tweed said grimly, 'this is not the work of a random serial killer. There is a link between the victims.

  And until the corpse is identified it may have nothing to do with Maine and Bray. Beck keeps up with worldwide crime, mentioned both Maine and Bray. He wants us to fly out today.' He looked at Monica. 'Could we catch a flight to Geneva this evening? Beck said he'd have a limo meet us, drive us to Montreux.'

  'Yes you could.' Monica carried timetables in her head. 'But I'd have to get cracking now. So would you - packing. How many people?'

  'Everyone in this room. The complete team. Travelling under their real names.' He looked round his office. 'It may be cold so pack warm clothes.'

  'It's freezing,' Paula said. 'Winter has started early out there. Snow has fallen on the peaks. Very early indeed.'

  'My case is packed, the one for emergencies such as this.' He gestured towards a large corner cupboard. 'What about yours, Paula?'

  'Ready. In the same cupboard. So is yours, isn't it, Bob?'

  'My skiing clothes are in my case, also in that cupboard, so I'll be OK.'

  'I won't,' interjected Marler. 'I'll have to dash home. I wonder how long we've got?'

  He waited while Monica continued to talk like a machine-gun to the girl at Heathrow. When she had completed her long conversation she held up one thumb, looked at Tweed.

  'You're booked on an evening flight. All of you. Hadn't I better phone Beck to give him flight data if he's sending transport to meet you at Geneva?'

  'That's the next thing to do.' He walked to her desk, gave her a slip of paper with Beck's number. 'How long have we?'

  'Three hours to be back here and ready to go. I'll book cabs. Taking cars and parking at Heathrow in Long Stay will hold you up.'

  'Three hours?' Marler repeated. 'I'm off.'

  There was a flurry of people leaving to go and fetch warm clothing. Tweed said he was popping up to see Howard to keep him in the picture and vanished. Only Paula and Newman were left in the office with Monica, who was already calling Beck. Paula suddenly realized she no longer felt jittery. The prospect of action had rejuvenated her. She unlocked a drawer, took out Wylie's A History of Executions., packed it carefully in her briefcase. Bedtime reading, she said to herself. I don't think.

  'Lord,' she said aloud. 'I have to phone Marienetta.'

  'What for?' Newman asked.

  'We were going to fix a date for dinner. I must tell her I'm not going to be available for a while.'

  Newman shrugged. She was talking on the phone while he read the latest issue of the Herald Tribune. Not a word in it about the murder of Hank Foley. Tweed returned as Paula put down the phone and spoke.

  'That's strange.'

  'What is?' Tweed asked, heading for the cupboard to check his suitcase.

  'I phoned Marienetta and her secretary said she had gone abroad a couple of days ago. So has Sophie. They never travel together, the secretary informed me after I prodded, suggesting I'd better speak to Mr Arbogast. Then the girl told me Mr Arbogast also was out of the country. They all left independently a couple of days ago.'

  'Which,' Tweed remarked from behind his desk, 'was the same time Russell Straub disappeared into the wild blue yonder. A coincidence? I wonder.'

  'Had you better phone Mrs Brucan to tell her you have to go off somewhere?' Paula suggested. 'It might save her a wasted journey - she doesn't seem to be able to keep away from here.'

  'I suppose I'd better.'

  Tweed looked up the number he had written down in his notebook. Picking up the phone, he called the number, waited. Thinking maybe he had misdialled, he tried again. He listened for a while, then gave it up.

  'No reply. Just the ringing tone. All these people disappearing. It's like a massacre by absence. Howard is fully informed, will take over while I'm away. He was very shocked by my news. I told him it might be anyone.'

  'Anyone?' queried Paula.

  'The third headless corpse found in Montreux.'

  'Let's hope to Heaven it's no one we know.'

  15

  The flight to Geneva was little more than an hour. This time they sat near the pilot's cabin. Again Paula was in a three-seater but she occupied the middle seat wit
h Tweed by the window and Newman by the aisle. The plane was half-empty so they were able to talk with no risk of being overheard. Several rows behind them Butler sat with Nield. At the rear Marler sat alone. He liked to be able to keep an eye on everyone aboard.

  Outside it was dark as Paula delved into her briefcase and brought out her cherished book. Slips of paper protruded where she had marked several pages. She glanced at Newman.

  'This is pretty grisly. Hope you've got a strong stomach.'

  'I'll be happy with this,' he replied, raising his glass of Scotch. 'Do your worst.'

  'They were very methodical with their executions,' she began. 'Here's phase one - a condemned man mounting to the top of the scaffold, arms tied together.'

  Tweed peered over to look at the picture drawn in what he suspected was charcoal. On the platform the executioner waited, a big tall brute with his head covered with a woollen helmet with eye-holes. Grim. In his right hand he held a long-handled axe. The victim was then laid on his back, his neck placed carefully on a wide curved block. The executioner raised the axe above his head.

  The next drawing showed it descending. Then the blade slashed through the neck, the head rolled back, dropped onto a large piece of sacking. Black blood pooled down on all sides from the ragged stump of what remained of the neck.

  'Good job it wasn't in colour,' Newman commented.

  The executioner lifted the severed head by its hair to display it to the crowd below. It was then dropped into the sacking. The executioner gathered up the sack, wrapping it round the head, dropping it into a cart below.