aside, take over the wheel himself. He'd drunk a whole bottle of red wine with lunch, preceded by two double Scotches, to say nothing of the cognacs. Head like a rock.
The cruiser slowed, its course changed a few degrees, then it glided in, bumping the stage gently. Crew members leapt off holding ropes fore and aft, expertly looping the ropes round bollards. The man in flannels remained quite still, erect.
Ralston led the way once the gangway was in position. Shaking hands, he introduced his guest.
'Peter, brought a passenger. Robert Newman. Foreign correspondent chappie.'
'I don't normally permit reporters on my property.'
Brand's expression and tone were sardonic as he shook hands. Pale eyes under thin dark brows studied Newman, who took an instant dislike to the banker. In his thirties, a long lean face, a thin aquiline nose, a mobile mouth, he'd be a wow with a certain kind of woman who went for the matinee idol type. His voice was a stretched out drawl, his movements slow and easy.
Plenty of intelligence, Newman thought – and he'd know that. Not a man to underestimate, but maybe too clever by half.
'You've had a bad experience?' Newman responded. 'An interview that went wrong?'
'Something like that. It's the women who are the real bitches. Well, since you're here, you'd better come up to the house for a drink, I suppose.'
'Only if I'm welcome,' Newman said neutrally.
'Wouldn't have asked you had it been otherwise.' They had left the landing stage, were walking up a gravel path towards a two-storey white-walled mansion. The path was wide but on either side beyond the gravel Newman noticed deep wheel ruts in the lawn.
'Something's spoilt your grass,' he remarked, walking alongside Brand. Ralston was stumping ahead, doubtless in need of more liquid refreshment.
'That's what I mean,' Brand replied in his slow careful tone. 'Reporters are always noticing things, remarking on them.'
'Must have been a heavy vehicle,' Newman persisted.
'Jesus!' Brand slapped his leg with the racquet. 'It's a machine I have for levelling the gravel. Its axis is too wide. Obvious solution, widen the path. Which I'm going to have done. Any more questions?'
'Know a man called Klein?'
'Several. Common name on the continent. What's his first name?'
'Oscar,' Newman invented.
'No. Friend of yours?'
'I've been asked to interview him. He's an authority on the Meuse.'
'Is he now? I think we'll have drinks on the terrace. The Colonel makes himself at home, as you'll see.'
The terrace was raised up and a central flight of steps led up to the elevation which ran the full width of the mansion. To the left of the building Newman saw a tennis court. A large swimming pool with a blue tile surround occupied the centre of the terrace. Garden chairs were placed round it and Ralston was helping himself from a decanter on a table laden with bottles and glasses.
'What are you drinking – if anything?' Brand enquired in a bored tone, throwing down the racquet on a swing couch.
'A Scotch. Water. No ice. Nice little place you've got here.'
Brand flashed him a look as he reached for the decanter. The hostility between the two men crackled like static electricity. Newman had no intention of touching his forelock to this sarcastic sod. And if you needle a man long enough he sometimes says more than he wishes.
'I'm glad you like my pied-a-terre,' Brand responded as he poured the drink, planted the glass on the table and plonked a heavy jug of water beside it. The jug, Newman noted, was the finest Swedish glass. 'You should,' he went on, mixing himself a drink, 'it cost four million.'
'Francs?' asked Newman innocently.
'Christ no! Pound sterling.'
Ralston sat down, crossed his chunky legs. He had sensed the animosity and his eyes studied Newman who occupied one of the garden chairs.
'Newman,' he told Brand, 'is interested in whether your outfit handles gold bullion.'
'Is he now?' Brand swallowed half his drink before he replied. 'May I ask the reason for your interest? Thinking of tucking away some of your book profits in a few bars the tax man will never find?'
'Oh, I'm just intrigued in how the other half lives. Could I use the loo?'
'Round that side of the house. Second door on the left and straight ahead. You can't miss it. I hope…'
Newman grinned amiably, walked along the rim of the swimming pool and round behind the house. He looked down as he walked. The wheel rims of the heavy-tyred vehicle had continued from the lawn up the gravel but were fainter. As though someone had brushed the gravel to eliminate the traces.
He walked on past the second door. The wheel impressions continued past the house across the front drive. They only disappeared where they met a tarred road which wound its way past more millionaire-style mansions behind trim hedges.
He returned quickly to the house, checking the mullion-paned windows. There was no sign of life, no sign that anyone had seen him. He walked inside the house in search of the toilet. A tall slim girl in her twenties, hair the colour of golden corn, dressed in tennis blouse and shorts, met him, coming the other way down the corridor.
'Looking for the loo,' Newman said.
'That door at the end of the passage.'
She pulled strands of her long hair, tucked them in her red-lipped mouth, stopped and stared at him. 'You look English. Are you?'
'Robert Newman. And yes, I'm pretty English.'
'Thank God for that. I'm sick of speaking French. Peter insists it's the polite thing to do. He plays a mean game of tennis – hates to lose, especially to a woman. Great sportsmen, these bankers. He plays a mean game at everything, come to think of it. God, you've no idea how boring the rich are. I think I'm going to cut and run.'
'Your decision,' Newman said breezily.
She lingered, studying him. Over her shoulder Newman gazed through a half-open door into a study. A teleprinter machine was quietly chattering away, mouthing out a spool of paper.
'I'm Carole Browne,' the girl went on. 'Maybe we could meet in Brussels – or some place?'
Newman took out his visiting card, tucked it inside a pocket of her blouse. The firmness of her breast pushed against his hand.
'Ever heard of a man called Klein?' he asked.
'Yes. Friend of Peter's. Some friend. He's spent several nights here. They spend their time behind the closed door of the study…'
She broke off as Newman heard steps crunching the gravel outside. He winked at her, spoke rapidly. 'I agree this is a lovely part of the world. Riviera is the word for it…'
'And what the hell do you two think you're up to?' Brand's voice asked behind him. 'I thought you were on your way to the loo.'
'I am.' Newman half-turned. 'This young lady has just told me where it is. You need a map for this maze of a house.'
'And who, if I may ask, left that study door open?'
'I was just going to close it,' Carole snapped, 'when I bumped into your friend. Here is the paper you asked for.' She handed him a copy of The Times which she produced from the tennis bag she carried. Newman saw from the front page it was one of the issues containing a series of articles he had written on revolutionary methods for tackling the terrorist menace – complete with his picture. Carole showed no sign of being intimidated as she continued talking to Newman.
'Since you admire the scenery go to the tennis court on the far side of the house. You get the most marvellous view up the Meuse.'
'And I,' Brand said in his most upper crust tone, 'would be frightfully grateful if ail my guests would assemble by the pool.' He slammed the study door shut and Newman heard an automatic lock click into place. The key,' Brand demanded, extending his hand. No please, Newman noted. Carole delved into a pocket, handed him a key. 'Come
