Precipice tac-14 Page 2

  'What sort of data?' Philip persisted, disliking the whole idea.

  He suspected Tweed was anxious to get him out of the house he had occupied alone since Jean's death. But now he had been given a specific job to do it would be useless to argue the point.

  'Another thing I'd like to find out – which will probably be impossible to extract if you do get close to him – is the names of his big clients. Take the case you always keep packed here for an emergency trip. And there's a Land Rover outside to get you there. Here are the keys. Philip, do try and relax in Dorset. Talk to people

  'Finished dreaming?' Eve demanded as she started to put on her camel-hair coat inside the Scott Arms. 'I'm still here. Just in case you'd forgotten.'

  She likes a lot of attention, Philip thought as he donned his duffel coat. No, that's not fair. I must have been silent for quite awhile. I'm out of practice at dealing with women.

  He quickly slipped in front of her and mounted the first flight of flagstone steps. The floors were paved with the same material.

  'I know the way out. You could be stuck in this maze for hours.' he joked over his shoulder.

  'That was Corfe Castle we could see through that window in the moonlight,' she rapped back.

  'I thought you said this was your first trip to Dorset,' he replied.

  'Like other people I do study guide books – they have pictures in them, in case you didn't know,' she replied sarcastically.

  Outside he hurried to the car park behind the pub and climbed up behind the wheel as she ran behind him. He kicked mud off his boots on the edge of the vehicle. She climbed into the passenger seat.

  'Move over.' she demanded. 'I want to drive.'

  'So do I. You've had a good run.'

  'You think one vodka affects my ability to handle your chariot?'

  'My turn.'

  Leaving the car park he drove down another steep winding hill with more hairpin bends, hit a water-splash, and water showered over the vehicle and through an open window.

  'My coat is soaked.' she said in an icy tone.

  He glanced at her. The camel-hair coat had only the odd sprinkle of water. She was staring straight ahead, in a bad mood because he wouldn't let her drive. In the distance and well below them two ridges of a Purbeck range dipped, enclosing a gap which must have been a strategic pass in the time of Cromwell. Corfe Castle was perched on a high mound in the gap. Its naked rocks and ruined towers reminded Philip of a skeleton, which took him back to the great fire at Sterndale Manor.

  Were General Sterndale and his son, Richard, now real skeletons consumed by what must have been incredibly high temperatures? A morbid thought, but earlier that evening he had met General Sterndale having a drink in the bar at the Priory. He had gathered the old boy made a nightly visit. It had been one of those long-shot coincidences you hope for but which rarely happen. At one stage the General had stared hard at Philip and, as they were alone, made a remark.

  'I see pain in your eyes. You look like a man who has suffered.. .'

  Philip had found himself telling him briefly of the tragedy of Jean's sudden death, something he rarely talked about to anyone. They had talked for a while so Philip had something to report to Tweed when he got back.

  Reaching Corfe, a village of old stone cottages which stood on the level, they followed the road back to Wareham, turning in a semicircle below the mound with Corfe Castle rearing above them. It was then a straight run along a good traffic-free road. Eve relapsed into a brooding silence, never once looking at Philip or saying a word. Pique.

  A great glaring eye filled his rear-view mirror. A motorcyclist in black leather, wearing a helmet, was perched on his tail. Philip waited for him to overtake as the macho boys always did. Black Leather remained glued to his tail. Philip recalled the burly youngster who had entered the Scott Arms.

  'Pass me, damn you!' he said to himself.

  The motorcyclist refused to oblige. Philip began to wish he had brought his Walther automatic. If the rider was armed and hostile.. .

  Oddly enough Eve seemed unaware of their follower. She remained quite still, arms folded on her seat belt. Philip slowed down, crossed the bridge over the River Frome at the outskirts to Wareham, signalled, turned right into a small old square and down a short lane leading to the Priory.

  He was parking close to a stone wall near the entrance to the hotel when he saw the motorcyclist stop on the far side of the square, switching off the blinding lamp.

  'Well, we got back in one piece.' Eve remarked as she jumped down onto the cobbles.

  'Nothing to it,' Philip responded, locking the vehicle.

  Eve stroked the new red Porsche he had pulled up alongside.

  'Now this I love. My chariot. Not bad, don't you agree?'

  Philip froze where he stood. On the drive down from Park Crescent he'd had the feeling he was being followed by someone in a red Porsche. The flash car had always kept several vehicles behind him and he'd lost it while he was approaching Wareham. The driver had worn a helmet so he'd never decided whether it was a man or a woman behind the wheel. Then he reminded himself there were quite a few red Porsches floating round. He glanced back at the old square and the motorcyclist had gone. No sound of his engine starting up, so he must have wheeled it back to the square before firing the engine. Very odd. He walked round to admire the Porsche – Eve's normal radiant cheerfulness seemed to have returned.

  'That's something else again. Must have cost you quite a packet.'

  'Company car.'

  She unlocked it and the courtesy light came on. Expensive clothes were thrown together on a seat as though they were rags. She rummaged through them, hauled out a pair of blue silk pyjamas. As she did so something beneath the pile of clothing slid out onto the floor. A crash helmet.

  They entered the centuries-old building which was the Priory Hotel under a stone arch into an enclosed courtyard unevenly paved with cobbles. Thrusting ahead, Eve pushed open the heavy wooden door leading into reception. Behind a narrow counter the proprietor, a warm able-looking man, greeted Philip.

  'Glad to see you back, sir. There was an urgent phone call for you from Monica. She asked you to call her the moment you returned. You can use this phone…'

  Tactfully the proprietor disappeared as Philip grasped the phone. Behind him Eve enquired: 'And who is Monica?'

  'My aunt.' Philip said quickly. 'She's looking after my house.' he continued, lying smoothly.

  'I'm going down to my suite. See you in the bar…'

  Philip would have preferred a less public phone but he was alone when he dialled Park Crescent. Monica, Tweed's assistant, spoke hurriedly.

  'I'm putting my boss on the line…'

  'Tweed here.' the familiar voice said. 'Are you calling from the hotel?'

  'Yes…'

  'Then get to a public phone damned fast and call me back.'

  The line went dead.

  Philip, still wearing his duffel coat, hurried back into the night which was now dry and still bitterly cold with a star-studded sky above him. Earlier, arriving at Ware-ham, he had noticed a phone box in South Street, no more than a five-minute walk away at the pace he moved. South Street was deserted as he entered the phone box, carrying a heavy torch he'd retrieved from his car. It had a powerful beam and was heavy, padded with rubber. A useful weapon if he happened to encounter Black Leather.

  Tweed himself answered the phone, began speaking rapidly after checking where Philip was speaking from.

  'All hell has broken loose down there. General Sterndale's house has gone up in flames. The fire brigade has recovered two bodies – the General's and that of his son, Richard, burnt to a cinder but just recognizable.'

  'We saw the mansion burning from a distance…'

  'We?'

  'I'll explain later. I thought I saw a four-wheel-drive leaving with several men aboard…'

  'Thought?'

  'Yes, I couldn't be sure. It all happened so quickly.'

  'In that case you sa
w nothing if you're questioned by the police. I'm referring to the phantom vehicle.'

  'Why…?'

  'Just listen. The fire brigade chief on the spot called the police chief at Dorchester. Because Sterndale was such a bigwig Dorchester contacted Scotland Yard. As luck -bad luck – would have it he talked to my old sparring partner, Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan. He may be on his way down there now by chopper. You could find yourself being grilled by him, so watch it.'

  'But I don't understand. Buchanan is Homicide.'

  'The fire chief reported the whole of the exterior of the mansion had been sprayed with petrol. This was no accident. It was arson. Cold-blooded murder.'

  'Oh, my God…'

  'I said listen. I've just phoned the General's niece – I know her slightly. She told me the bulk of the bank's capital was kept by the General in his study at the mansion. In the form of bearer bonds – negotiable anywhere and no questions asked. He left just enough cash in the branches to keep them turning over.'

  'How much money are we talking about?'

  'Three hundred million pounds. Plus. I must go now. You stay put down there. Mooch around a bit in the morning, but go carefully. And I've sent you help back-up.'

  'Who?'

  'He could be there now. You'll recognize him when you see him.. .'

  1

  Philip walked more slowly back to the hotel. He wanted to get his thoughts into order. Arson? Murder? And he had witnessed it with Eve. He arranged the facts in sequence.

  At the cliff edge he was sure he'd seen signal lights out at sea flashing, lights which were answered by what appeared to be an empty old hulk of a house. If he had seen them. Eve had denied seeing anything and already he had realized she didn't miss much.

  Then the horrific fire. And the vehicle he had seen rushing away inland. If he had seen a vehicle. At the Scott Arms the burly motorcyclist who had walked past their booth. Nothing to that. Except later they'd been followed all the way back to the Priory by a motorcyclist – one solid fact which was not the product of an over-heated imagination brought on by the devilishly attractive Eve.

  As he pushed open the wooden door into the lobby of the hotel he felt grateful to Tweed for warning him to say very little. Taking off his duffel coat, he walked along the corridor and peered into the bar, which was a separate room at the end. He had another shock.

  Eve, seated almost with her back to him, had changed into a dark blue dress, a gold belt encircling her waist, with her long shapely legs crossed, revealed by a deep slit in the skirt. She was talking to Bob Newman, who sat listening to her, poker-faced, with a glass of Scotch in his hand.

  So this was the 'help' Tweed had despatched so urgently as back-up. Newman, foreign correspondent, was a trusted and close friend of Tweed's. He had been fully vetted long ago. Now in his forties, he had taken part fully and with great effectiveness in several SIS missions.

  Philip decided to leave them alone for a few minutes while he went on collecting his thoughts. He had not been seen as he slipped into the empty comfortable lounge at the rear of the hotel, sat down on a couch. I wonder what they're talking about, Philip mused.

  Bob Newman had arrived earlier that evening, in the dark, after a hair-raising drive down to Wareham. Newman liked to put his foot down behind the wheel, but never had a drink before driving. Registering, he had taken his case up to his room, had thrown back the lid, quickly hung up a few jackets, then made his way down to the bar for a much-needed Scotch.

  The bar, a long room with the counter on his left as he entered, was empty except for the barman. And an attractive woman wearing a dark blue dress. She had made the first move as he prepared to sit some distance from her.

  'I'm on my own. Could we possibly chat together over our drinks? You're Robert Newman, the world-famous correspondent. I recognize you from pictures in the world press.'

  'Not world famous. Notorious is the word,' he told her as he sat in an armchair close to her. 'Cheers!'

  'I don't see many articles by you these days.' she went on, flashing him a warm smile. 'I suppose that best-selling book you wrote, Kruger: The Computer Which Failed, must have netted you a fortune. It went all over the world and is still in print.'

  'It made me comfortably off.' he said shortly.

  No point in revealing he was a millionaire. You didn't say that to strange women. Newman didn't say it to anyone. She was studying him.

  He would be about five feet ten tall, well-built, strong face, clean-shaven with light brown hair and an aura of a man who had been about and seen the world at its best -and its worst. A very tough individual, she was thinking, but pleasant on the rare occasions when he smiled.

  'I'm Eve Warner, by the way.' she remarked.

  'What do you do to earn a daily crust?' he asked. 'Or are you a lady of leisure?'

  'Do I look like one?' She reared up indignantly. 'I've always had to work for my living. Unlike you.' she teased.

  She gave him a wide smile which struck him as wolfish. He didn't react to her dig at him. There was a long pause and he waited for her to feel she should say more. She didn't, which he found interesting.

  'What sort of a job have you got, then?' he asked eventually.

  'I'm with a security outfit.'

  'Which one?'

  'It's a bit hush-hush.'

  'They all are.'

  'But the pay is good and I work like a Trojan.'

  'You mean you're a Trojan horse?' he shot at her.

  The staring brown eyes flickered. He'd caught her off guard. She looked behind him. Philip had entered the bar, waved to her as she turned round.

  'I'm buying. What's your poison, Eve? Oh, hello, Bob. Long time no see.'

  'I'm staying with vodka. Another double.' Eve replied.

  'A Scotch for me, Philip.' said Newman.

  'Oh, you two know each other?' Eve asked, the surprise showing in her voice.

  'Off and on. Here and there.' Newman replied, raising his voice slightly so Philip would hear what he'd said. 'Philip's in insurance. I was once investigating a big fraud case and he gave me a few tips. ..'

  Philip blessed Newman for guessing so accurately what he had told Eve. He ordered a glass of French dry white wine for himself, brought the drinks over. Eve watched him. In his thirties, Philip was leaner than Newman, more sensitive, she guessed. Less able to cope with life. In this she guessed wrong and badly underestimated Philip. He hauled up a chair so they formed a close circle. Eve drank her fresh vodka and immediately half-emptied her glass. She lit another cigarette from the one she had been smoking. Newman had fished out a lighter but she shook her head.

  'I can light my own cigarette.'

  'Good for you. You'll learn how to smoke it in time.'

  She gave him a cold look, clenched her full lips, then smiled.

  'Talking about smoke, you've heard about the terrible fire out near Lyman's Tout?' she asked Newman.

  'What fire?'

  Eve rattled on about the experience she had had while driving with Philip. She talked about it as though it had been a remote event in the past.

  'A bit grisly a topic for such a pleasant evening,' she concluded.

  'Grisly if you say Sterndale and his son were locked up inside the place. How do you know they were locked up? That detail about the General closing the shutters himself every night sounds as though you know him,' Newman pressed.

  'I can see why you were such a success as a foreign correspondent. Actually, Philip told me. Before dinner he'd met General Sterndale in this very bar. The old boy was quite talkative, I gather. I didn't see him. I was in my suite taking a shower.'

  'I heard he was a very old man.' Newman commented. 'I suppose in a place like you described he'd have great log fires. One could have rolled out onto a rug and there we go. A tragedy.'

  'There was a log pile, I think,' Eve ruminated, chin perched in her left hand, the right holding the vodka so it wouldn't disappear. 'Outside a barn-like effort. Stacked up against the end of the
building, the one where Sterndale kept his old Bentley. The rear of the car was sticking out in the open.'

  Philip stayed quiet, sipping his glass of wine. He had no recollection of the log pile Eve had described. But up there on the cliff-top his mind had been a turmoil of emotions – his growing fascination with Eve, remembrances of his dead wife, Jean. He couldn't swear there had been no log pile at the end of the barn. He couldn't be sure of anything. He wondered whether Tweed was still in his office.

  'You sent Philip down to Dorset on the excuse of his needing a holiday but your real purpose was to have him on the spot to watch over General Sterndale. Now look at the mess he's in.' Paula accused.

  It was ten o'clock at night in Tweed's office at Park Crescent. He sat behind his desk and studied Paula Grey without replying at once. A very attractive slim brunette, she sat behind her own desk, her eyes blazing. His closest confidante and chief assistant, she never hesitated to speak her mind, something Tweed admired. Paula, unmarried after an unhappy love affair, was in her mid-thirties.

  The only other occupant, behind her own desk in a corner, was Monica, also a trusted deputy. A small woman of uncertain age, she wore her greying hair in a bun and now she listened to the duel of words, enjoying herself.

  'You're partly right.' Tweed admitted. 'But he's spent too many nights and weekends in that nice house he lived in with Jean. I wanted to get him out of the atmosphere of the place. Somewhere in this country – not abroad until I'm sure he's stabilized emotionally. I certainly had no idea his trip would turn out to be so dramatic. And, as you know, Bob Newman has rushed down there at my request as back-up.'

  'That will help,' Paula agreed. 'But what is this all about? How did it start?'

  'In Paris.'

  He rather enjoyed the look of astonishment on her face. All trace of indignation vanished.

  'In Paris?' Paula repeated. 'How?'

  There was a tap on the door, Tweed called out, 'Come in.' and Marler entered. The deadliest marksman in Western Europe, the new arrival, a long-time member of Tweed's staff, was of medium height, slim and smartly dressed in a shooting jacket, corduroy trousers, and brown hand-made shoes which gleamed like glass. Clean-shaven, he had a cynical smile and was known not to trust a word anyone said to him until he had triple-checked it.