No, you're not, Tweed thought. You have the poise of the devil. Don't push her any more, he warned himself.
By now Tweed was feeling dizzy and unwell. He had to concentrate on signing the bill. He had intended to escort Viola home to her flat but he was wondering whether he was capable of driving his car safely. He made a great effort to stand upright as he followed Viola to the exit.
Arriving at the outside world she pointed to a Rolls-Royce Phantom with a uniformed attendant from Mungano's standing guard beside it. She turned, threw her arms round Tweed's neck and kissed him.
'That was the most delicious evening. The company was even better. Already I feel I've known you ages. When I've had time to think things over can we meet again, please?'
She had a gold-bordered card in her hand which she tucked into the top pocket of his overcoat. 'My private number. But I'll probably call you. Bob gave me the number. I like you…'
Her velvet coat swinging, she strode across to her car, tipped the attendant. Another attendant had brought Tweed's Ford to the kerb by the entrance. Unhappily, Tweed watched Viola wave, drive off. He concentrated on climbing behind the wheel. What the hell am I going to do until I recover.
With a supreme effort of will he fitted the key into the ignition, started the engine. He looked everywhere before moving. No traffic in sight, no sound of it. He had lowered his window and cold March air swept inside. He took deep breaths, felt a little better. He began moving. Slowly.
Arriving at the entrance to the narrow cul-de-sac, he cautiously reversed into it. Once he had the car concealed inside he switched off the engine. It was absolutely silent inside the alcove-like street.
He began to shiver, closed the window, locked all the doors. He was feeling worse now, on the verge of falling asleep. He checked his watch. The illuminated hands showed 10.30 p.m. His last thought was to think about Viola. Was she safely home in Fox Street? Why was he so worried about her? Then he lost consciousness, falling into a deep sleep.
1
Thud…
Brief pause.
Thud…
Pause.
Thud…
Inside the bedroom of her flat in Fox Street, Viola lay naked on the floor, a gag tied round her mouth. She had been attacked the moment she entered the bedroom and switched on the light. A handkerchief lightly soaked in chloroform had been pressed over her face from behind. Her unseen assailant had carried her half-limp figure to the far side of the bed. She was dumped on the floor, began to regain consciousness. A latex-covered hand had lifted her head, slammed it down – not too hard. The towel gag had been applied to her mouth. She was vaguely aware of something awful happening to her, then the weight lifted off her. She opened her eyes.
A weird figure stood over her. Clad in a surgeon's white gown, white cap, white mask over the face, huge goggles clamped over the eyes. She couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. Terror gripped her as she saw the gloved hand lift a meat cleaver.
Lifted high, the cleaver descended. Thud… It severed her left arm just below the elbow. She almost fainted, but the pain was so excruciating she stayed conscious. The lower arm slid a few inches free of the elbow.
The cleaver descended again, swiftly and with immense force. It sliced off the right arm below the elbow. So great was the force the blade cut straight through bone and muscle, embedded itself into the floorboard. The wielder of the blade had to wrench it strongly to release it from the wood.
Thud…
The left leg was severed cleanly below the knee. Viola's upper body was now shuddering. Her sharp teeth were tearing at the gag, now only a reflex action.
Thud…
The right leg below the knee was parted from the rest of the body. A lake of blood slithered over the floor. The figure clad in white also wore outsize thick white canvas covers over its normal shoes.
Viola's teeth ripped open the gag. Her mouth opened wide on the verge of a terrible yell.
Time to complete the exercise.
Thud…
The cleaver descended through her neck, separating head from body, just before Viola let out a yell of hell. The blow had severed the carotid arteries. An enormous spurt of blood jetted across the room, splashed all over the frosted-glass window overlooking the street.
The white-clad figure sighed aloud, pulled up a sleeve, checked the time. 11.15 p.m. Time to make the arrangement, then leave quickly.
2
Slumped behind the wheel of his stationary car, Tweed stirred. Where was he? Memory of the dinner with Viola flooded back, then feeling so strange as they left Mungano's. He straightened up, worked his arms, found he felt normal. Almost normal enough to drive. He checked the time: 6 a.m. God!
He could hardly credit it – he'd slept seven and a half hours. He drove very slowly, emerging from the cul-de- sac. The street was empty. He knew he could now drive safely. Even so he crawled back to the mews near his flat where he had hired a garage for a small fortune.
Locking the door, he paused to glance everywhere. No sign of a soul. He felt better. The cold early morning air was welcome. He began to stride quickly across the cobbled mews to the exit. A mistake. He still felt wobbly.
Arriving in Bexford Street, lined with tall old terraced houses, he climbed the steps to his heavy wooden front door. A street lamp on the deserted pavement provided illumination to find the Banham lock.
As he wrestled his keys from an inner pocket he stared at the lock. There were gouge marks round it. Someone had tried to get inside during the night. He had trouble turning the key. Someone had entered his flat. Twiddling with his key he managed to turn it. He opened the door silently.
Once inside, he closed the door without switching on any lights, stood listening. Not a sound. He moved slowly along the hall, his hand counting the panels in the wall to his right. Reaching number four he paused, pressed his thumb three times against a corner, waited, pressed twice, then three times again. The panel slid back. He reached in, grasped the loaded Walther automatic, closed the coded panel, felt his way past the drawing-room door, began to climb the stairs cautiously. Although it was called a flat he owned the entire four storeys. He avoided stepping on the stair tread which creaked, reached the first floor. His bedroom door was not quite closed. After dressing for his dinner with Viola he had been in a hurry, but he still took precautions. Standing to one side of the door he reached inside, turned on the main light. He went inside quickly, gripping his Walther, stared all round. Nothing. His head was playing tricks on him again. He cursed, closed the door, staggered over to his bed, jerked off the top cover on to the floor. He was on the verge of collapse.
Making a great effort, he pulled off his shoes, threw off his overcoat, slipped the Walther under the pillow. Tearing off his tie, opening his collar, he sank on to the bed, switched off the light, lost consciousness.
Paula, determined to start work early, was driving down the short cut which was Bexford Street. She parked outside Tweed's home. She'd leave him a note through the letterbox to tell him what she was doing.
Climbing the steps, her alert eyes instantly noticed gouge marks round the lock. Someone must have tried to break in while Tweed was dining with Viola. She took out the duplicate key he had given her, had trouble turning it in the lock. Before she entered quietly she hauled out the Browning. 32 automatic from the holster beneath her thigh-length raincoat.
She closed the front door carefully, walked noiselessly along the hall. Reaching the living-room door, she
