Vorpal Blade

by Colin Forbes

  'Go ahead,' Paula urged her. 'There's far too much for me.'

  Sophie piled her fork full of pasta, suddenly turned to her left and emptied the contents into Black Jack's lap.

  'That's a messy way to eat,' a new voice commented nastily. Sam Snyder had appeared out of nowhere.

  The hawk-faced reporter stood close to Diamond as he waved a hand at the other diners round the table. He was wearing a dinner jacket and looked very different from when he had walked in to the coffee shop in faraway London's King Street.

  'Good evening, ladies.'

  Black Jack stood up, stumbled, knocked over his chair. He glared at Snyder savagely. His left fist clenched and he snarled: 'I'm going to put you in hospital, you dirty little tyke.'

  Here we go, Paula said to herself. Blackjack was going to beat up the reporter badly. His left fist moved back to give extra violence to the blow. It slammed forward, Snyder moved so swiftly Paula hardly saw what happened. Black Jack's left arm was gripped in an arm-lock, twisted round, turning its owner with it. Paula was surprised by Snyder's strength.

  'Ouch!' yelled Black Jack. 'You're breaking my arm.'

  'Breaking it yourself, mate, by moving. So just you keep quite still or you will be the one in hospital.'

  For several moments both men stood motionless, like figures in a tableau. Other diners stared. Paula was struck by the grim look on the reporter's face. It occurred to her that Snyder was more than capable of carrying out his threat.

  'Now, going to keep quiet, mate?' Snyder asked. 'If you are I can let you go. You do need to clean yourself up.'

  'Release me,' Jack croaked. 'I'm heading for the bathroom.'

  Snyder let go, Jack stood up slowly, his right hand clutching his left arm. Still slowly, he began to walk away. Then he paused, turned round and addressed the table.

  'See you, folks,' he said in a parting attempt to express bravado. He brushed aside a waiter who had rushed forward with a napkin to help clean him up. Then he was gone.

  'Sorry about that,' Snyder remarked. 'Seeing as there's an empty chair here I might as well sit in it. If that's OK by you.'

  He didn't wait for an answer, seating himself in the chair vacated by Black Jack. The waiter placed a fresh glass before him. Marienetta poured red wine for him, clasped her hands together, the points of her fingers steepled under her chin, staring at him.

  'What brings you to Montreux?' Paula asked him.

  'I followed Sophie and Black Jack, travelled in the rear of the same plane they took to Geneva. Then hired a taxi to follow the car waiting for them. Simple as that.'

  'I don't think you've really answered my question,' Paula persisted.

  'Murder brought me here.' Snyder tried the wine, looked at Marienetta. 'Thank you, this is excellent. Most kind of you.'

  'Murder?' Paula was puzzled. 'You couldn't have heard of any murder in Montreux. It hadn't happened when you caught the flight at Heathrow two days ago.'

  'True. It hadn't. I was referring to the murder of Adam Holgate at Bray. The Arbogasts have a mansion out there.

  Abbey Grange. Now the Arbogasts are here and out on that lake another body is floating. So my hunch was right. My hunches are often on target.'

  'I don't like your implication,' Marienetta said, her tone chilly.

  'No implication, Marienetta.' Snyder gave her a smile, so warm and pleasant it surprised Paula. There was another side to this reporter. 'No implication at all,' Snyder continued. 'But I think a member of the Arbogast circle may have vital information without realizing it.'

  Smooth too, Paula decided. Clever with using words.

  'What so-called vital information?' Marienetta asked in the same cold voice.

  'Well, in London at the Cone building Mr Roman Arbogast agreed to see me. Then I saw you and the result was a total negative. As though there's something important to hide. It ended up with your calling Broden to throw me out.' Snyder turned to Paula. 'Did you know Broden is here? At this moment he's sitting at the bar, watching us in the mirror behind it.'

  'No, I didn't know he was here,' Paula replied. 'But that is the business of the Arbogasts.'

  'Paula.' Marienetta leaned forward. 'Broden is here as a bodyguard. For Uncle. He flew to Switzerland with him.'

  'But someone told me Roman left the hotel a few hours ago in his car, driving himself and on his own.'

  'You're quite right. Uncle heard about the headless body in the lake and left Broden behind to look after us - Sophie and myself. He was worried.'

  'So Broden has been here two days,' Paula remarked.

  'That's right.'

  'One thing I wanted to check,' Snyder said, looking at Marienetta. 'What exactly were Adam Holgate's duties at ACTIL? And did he snoop around at all?'

  'Try minding your own business.' Marienetta's tone was freezing now.

  'I can tell you,' piped up Sophie, annoyed at being left out of the conversation. 'Adam never stopped snooping. He was careful to wait until Broden was out of the way . . .'

  'Sophie,' warned Marienetta.

  A mistake, Paula said to herself, it will only egg Sophie on, and it did.

  'I think Adam had made duplicate keys of cabinets containing top secret files. He probably learned that trick when he was working for you,' she said, looking at Paula. 'Once I caught him using a camera to photograph certain documents. Don't know what they were.'

  'Intriguing,' commented Snyder.

  'I think we should have coffee in the lounge,' suggested Marienetta, standing up, 'then the waiters can clear the table. Do take the bottle with you, Mr Snyder. I have heard reporters are partial to alcohol to stimulate their wild imaginations . . .'

  Paula walked over to join Tweed and Newman, who were drinking coffee. She told Tweed everything that had been said, quoting dialogue from memory. Like Marienetta and Sophie, Snyder had left the dining room. Tweed lit one of his rare cigarettes, leaning back in his chair as he listened to Paula.

  'That's it,' she said eventually. 'You've got the lot.'

  'It was well worthwhile suggesting you joined them,' Tweed said thoughtfully. 'That bit about Holgate photographing documents could be significant.'

  'Broden is now watching us in that mirror,' Newman observed. 'There's something not right about the Arbogast set-up. Interesting that Sophie is much brighter than we'd thought.'

  'That plastics factory could be a key factor,' Tweed remarked dreamily.

  'In what way?' Paula asked.

  'Time we moved,' he replied. 'Paula, I want you to help me play a trick on the receptionist, to divert his attention after I've asked him something.'

  'I suppose I'll think something up.'

  The receptionist was behind his counter when they strolled into the hall. Beyond the entrance doors a car had pulled up and new visitors were getting out. Tweed hurried to the desk.

  'Excuse me,' he began, 'but when I registered I think I made a mistake with my address. Could I correct it, please.'

  The receptionist opened the register, pushed it towards Tweed as guests began to enter. Paula asked the receptionist if she could have a train timetable. The receptionist gave her one and then was occupied with the new arrivals. Tweed's eyes scanned the whole page, starting with the top. Then he took out a pen and wrote again the same address over the one he had written earlier.

  He went over to where Newman was chatting to Paula. He kept his voice low.

  'Bob, that locksmith who came up from the mansion in Surrey taught you how to open doors. Could you manage a door here upstairs? You've seen your own door.'

  'I guess I could. Why?'

  'I saw in the hotel register someone arrived here two days ago. A Mr Mannix. Remember the name of the patient in the asylum near Pinedale? The mysterious one, in the prison room as Millie called it.'

  'Mannix. It couldn't be the same one, could it?' wondered Paula.

  The corridor on the third floor was deserted. Newman took very little time operating the instrument he always carried since his trainin
g session with the locksmith. Before unlocking the door he pressed the bell three times. No reaction.

  Paula whispered to Tweed. 'I think Bob should stay outside. Then he can warn us if the chambermaid turns up. Three presses of the bell means trouble.'

  'I heard that,' said Newman. 'I'll stand guard. In you go.'

  Tweed went first, followed by Paula. If there was someone in the room he planned to say, 'The door was open. I know a Mr Mannix and thought you were him.'

  Tweed explored the living area while Paula checked the bedroom. The sheets had been turned down on the bed and two wrapped chocolates were perched on the pillow. She started opening closets, found they were occupied by men's clothes. When she opened the next one she gave a little cry of fear. Tweed was alongside her in a flash.

  'What is it?'

  'Look in here. A long black coat and that wide-brimmed hat. It's just like the second shadow which stood behind me in that side street off Piccadilly at night. I told you. When I swung round the figure throwing the shadow had gone, probably down inside a dark alley.'

  'Mr Mannix is tall and all his clothes seem new. Suggests he has a pile of money. I checked the bathroom, found a hairbrush but not a single hair in it. Something very odd here. Two empty brand-new suitcases parked in the living room.'

  'Let's get out of here. We've seen what we can and it's creepy . . .'

  Outside Newman closed the door, which automatically locked, and Paula made a suggestion.

  'This is close to my suite. Wait while I rush along and check something.'

  After a short absence she came running back. She spoke quietly.

  'Just as I suspected. My bed isn't turned down yet. I don't think Mannix has slept in that bed.'

  'We'll go down and have a word with the receptionist. . .'

  Tweed approached the desk and now the night receptionist had taken over. Tweed stared at him as he explained what was bothering him.

  'I have a friend, a Mr Mannix, staying here. I wanted to take him to the bar. He doesn't ever seem to be in.'

  'No, sir, he does not. We have talked about it. Since I booked him in two nights ago no one has seen him. Not even in the restaurant.'

  'Maybe I've got the wrong Mr Mannix. Could you describe him?'

  'When he booked in we were very busy.' The receptionist frowned. 'I seem to recall a tall man in a long dark overcoat. He wore an unusual hat. A very wide brim and the brim was well pulled down. He also wore large dark glasses.'

  'Doesn't matter,' Tweed said as though it wasn't important. 'Nabokov, the man who wrote Lolita, stayed here for fifteen years, the last years of his life.'

  ''Sixteen years,' the receptionist corrected him.

  'Probably before your time,' Newman remarked wickedly as he moved away.

  'He didn't like that,' Paula whispered. 'He can't be a day over thirty and Nabokov died in 1977.'

  'I know. Maybe we ought to get to bed.'

  'I'm dropping,' said Paula. 'If anything happens you'll wake me with the code - four knocks, a pause, then one knock.' She was thinking as they walked down the hall. 'I suppose the mysterious Mr Mannix couldn't be the body in the lake? Weird thought.'

  Paula forced herself to have a shower, then flopped into bed. She fell fast asleep within minutes. She was confident she would enjoy the deepest sleep she'd experienced for a while. The nightmare invaded her mind suddenly.

  She was by herself, searching the grassy ground close to the asylum at Pinedale. It was very quiet and clouds of mist floated towards her. She was looking for a lot of blood, where the head of Foley must have been held up by his hair. The asylum still existed, a vague shape as the mist swirled round it. Where were Tweed and Newman? She had no idea.

  She heard a sound like the slow padding of heavy feet coming towards her. Her right hand dived into her looped handbag. Then she remembered, with a spasm of fear, they had brought no weapons with them to Maine. She did not have her .32 Browning. She looked round for a weapon, a heavy branch. Nothing. She turned in the direction of the approaching padding footsteps.

  A shadowy figure moved in the mist. Something tall and wearing a long black coat. It wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled down so she could not see the face - only a white blur. She tried to run but her legs wouldn't move, felt like they were made of lead.

  The figure advanced closer, the long black coat swinging with its motion. Then she saw it more clearly and her throat choked up. There was still no wind but the hat was blown off, exposing the head. She wanted to scream but couldn't make a sound. Below where the hat had been was a horrific face, twisted in a grimace of hate, one eye twitching. The face of Roman Arbogast as Marienetta had painted it 'when he was in a rage'.

  In his right hand he held a long-handled axe. He was lifting the axe as he came very close. Her feet were glued to the ground. He elevated the axe, the blunt end in front. He was going to smash her skull before he decapitated her. She screamed. Someone was hammering somewhere. She woke up, covered in perspiration. Her mind blurred, she threw back the bedclothes, hobbled to the door in her pyjamas. Her trembling fingers unlocked it. Tweed was outside clad in a dressing gown.

  'You screamed,' he began. 'What happened? Are you all right?'

  'I'm OK. I had a nightmare. I think it was triggered off by seeing those clothes in the Mannix room.'

  'You're sure you're all right now? Drink a lot of water.'

  'I will. Why are you here?'

  'Just heard from Beck. They have the body. The patrol boat scooped it up on its huge shovel, then dropped it close to the pic-bot. Is that how you say it?'

  'Your French is perfect. I need ten minutes.'

  'So do I.'

  She had another quick shower. Her pyjamas were soaking-wet. The shower woke her up and she was alert. She was ready when Tweed, half-dressed, returned with Newman. She let them in, hauled on her trousers and jacket. She'd checked the time. 7 a.m. It was dark outside and would be very cold.

  Newman asked her, 'Recovered from the nightmare yet?'

  'Completely. I'll tell you about it later. I'm ready.'

  'Bring a torch,' Tweed advised.

  'And my little camera,' she added.

  There was no one about inside the hotel as they approached the exit. Newman had reconnoitred the route after dressing swiftly and throwing on his overcoat, then returned to the hotel. He led the way. The early morning air chilled her face as they crossed the Grand-Rue and descended a steep flight of steps to the promenade and the lakeside. On their way down the flight of steps Paula saw autumn leaves plastered to a stone wall. Some were orange, some blood-red. It had been quiet in the hotel but the atmosphere changed as they came close to the police tape.

  Crowds jammed the promenade, men and women in dressing gowns and scarves with overcoats pulled over them. Over them TV lights glared above huge cameras. The bush telegraph had brought out the media in swarms. Three uniformed police barred their way, shaking their heads, pushing towards them with gloved hands. Beck appeared.

  'Let these three people through,' he ordered in French.

  The sightseeing crowd was silent. Paula heard the swish of small waves breaking against the front. The storm had gone away. Tweed noted that Beck was well organized.

  Further along the quai a large truck carrying a hoist was backed to the edge. The hoist was lowering a stretcher. The body, Paula realized, had to be floating alongside the pic-bot. The strange vessel was as she remembered it, like a long metal barge with slanting sides sloping down to its capacious flat bottom. Its two crew-members were seated at one end, smoking. Their tools rested on the base - a long-handled rake for hauling in debris, a long-handled scoop for lifting the debris into the pic-bot.

  'They thought they could help,' Beck explained. 'They can't, as you see now.'

  The large stretcher hovered just above the lake's surface. Two divers were starting to lift a gleaming body bag into the stretcher.

  'Now don't rush it,' a high-pitched voice shouted in French. 'Do not disturb the body bag
in any way. Slowly! Treat it as though it were alive. You do hear me.'

  A short plump man wearing a raincoat buttoned to his neck was responsible for shouting the orders. He couldn't keep still as he paced, never taking his eyes off what was being lifted and placed in the stretcher.

  'That's Dr Zeitzler, the pathologist from Zurich,' Beck explained. 'He's very fussy that nothing should be disturbed until he's conducted his autopsy. He's right, of course.'

  The stretcher now contained the rubberized body bag. The hoist lifted it very slowly, swung it away from the lake, carefully lowered it on to the promenade near an ambulance backed to the kerb.

  'It might just be someone we know,' Paula said quietly. 'If you want an immediate identification.'

  'The three of you come with me,' Beck said, grasping Paula by the arm.

  'Dr Zeitzler,' Beck said in English and a commanding voice, 'we have someone here who might be able to identify the body. And I need identification at the earliest possible moment to pursue my investigation.'

  'I am only prepared to open the bag a few inches,' Zeitzler replied in English. 'She'll probably faint anyway if the corpse is indeed headless.'

  'No, I won't,' Paula snapped back.

  The pathologist put latex gloves on. While he was doing this he walked all round the body bag. Then, giving her a grim look, he bent down, very slowly and carefully taking hold of the zip, pulled it gently down several inches.