'Up to you.'
'My reward for telling is you have dinner with me soon. Promise?'
'I'll think about it.'
The trouble was I only heard a bit. Then one of the treads on the staircase creaked. Barrymore came to the door and slammed it shut. I froze, still as a mouse.'
'Did he see you?' Tweed kept the anxiety out of his voice.
'I'm not sure. Before that happened Robson said they'd better watch out. He sensed that the Greek Key might arrive soon on Exmoor, that he'd heard Petros – I think that was the name – was looking for them…'
Tweed was getting anxious: it was after 7 p.m. and there was still no sign of Paula. Monica, who worked all hours, saw him check his watch,
'She'll be all right. Paula can look after herself.'
The phone rang, she picked it up, spoke briefly. She nodded towards Tweed's phone.
'It's Harry Butler. Says it's an emergency. Not like him…'
Tweed lifted the receiver. 'Hello, Harry, Where are you calling from?'
'From a public phone box in Minehead on the coast. We're staying at a tiny place called Porlock Weir, also on the coast. End of the road. Literally. It stops there, I decided we needed a new base. Not Dunster, not Taunton. Porlock Weir Is tucked away. Has a toy harbour for boats. The only way west is to walk along the rocky shore. I can hear the tide coming in at night. High tide around midnight. Got a pencil handy? Good, We're staying at The Anchor Hotel. I'm in Room Three, Pete has Room Two. Telephone number is 0643 862753. Got it?'
'Yes. Something's happened?'
'The ex-commando lot have disappeared. All three. Robson, Kearns and Barrymore. They've left Exmoor…'
'How do you know that?' Tweed felt a chill creeping up his spine.
'I took Barrymore and Robson's residences – because they're close together, Pete watched Kearns. We kept in contact with our car radios. Careful what we said. Not a sign of them, I decided to use bull-at-gate method.'
'What did you do next?'
'Called at each address after buying new outfits. Country stuff. Pete shaved off his moustache – after a lot of pressure from me. I wore a polo-necked sweater and a pair of tinted glasses. Not foolproof, but if one of them opened the door we'd know at least they were there.'
'And the result?'
'At Quarme Manor that old bat of a housekeeper, Mrs Atyeo, tells me the Colonel is not at home. Can't say when he'll be back. I chatted her up, but Set's skip that. So I drove on to Captain Robson at his posh bungalow. His sister – when I coax her – says her brother is away in London. Pete had a rougher time at CSM Kearns' place. No answer to the bell-push so he scrambles over the gate. The dog comes at him – ruddy Alsatian type. Pete coped, bashed the beast on the nose with the barrel of his gun. They don't like that – a hefty bonk on the nose. Pete prowled round the place. It was after dark. No lights. No one home. That's it. They've gone. To London maybe. Robson could have lied to his sister. We feel we should have seen one of them go.'
'Not necessarily. Harry, both of you stay on at The Anchor – and pick up any gossip on the three men. Call Monica if there's a fresh twist. In any case, call daily. Take care.'
Tweed sat staring into the distance after putting down the phone. Monica watched him as she removed the cassette which had recorded Butler's conversation.
'He said something which triggered off a memory,' Tweed told her after a few minutes. 'Can't put my finger on it. We'll play it back later, see if I can spot what it was.'
He walked over to the wall where three maps had been attached – maps carrying flags with names. A map of Exmoor. A map of the Greek area stretching from Athens to Cape Sounion. And a map of Athens which Monica had obtained.
On the Exmoor map flags with names located the homes of Barrymore, Robson and Kearns, the bungalow estate, Professor Seton-Charles' residence, The Royal Oak at Winsford and The Luttrell Arms – the two places where the trio met weekly for lunch or dinner. One flag pressed in close to Winsford carried the name Sam Partridge. Tweed picked up two more from a tray on a table and wrote Butler and Nield on each. He pressed these in over Porlock Weir.
The map of Greece carried fewer flags. One for Petros in Devil's Valley, another close by for Florakis. A third, perched at the edge of Cape Sounion, carried what amounted to an obituary. Harry Masterson.
The street plan of Athens was becoming crowded. At the corner of Syntagma Square where the Grande Bretagne was situated, three more names: Christina Gavalas, Newman, Marler. At the other end of Avenue Sofias a flag for Professor Seton-Charles at the Hilton. And, finally, at the police headquarters building on Alexandras, Peter Sarris and Kalos.
'Who is Kalos?' Monica asked.
The Dormouse.'
'Sorry? Did I hear you aright?'
'You did. I met Kalos, Sarris' loyal assistant, at the security conference in Geneva. A small, stocky chap with a stubble of light brown hair peppered over his head. I nicknamed him The Dormouse -because that's what he looks like. We got on well together. When I go to Athens he's the man I'm hoping will tell me anything they know. Sarris is more cautious. Another reason for my respecting The Dormouse is his uncanny ability to track a suspect while merging with his background. Sarris told me that.'
'Maybe you'd better fly to Greece soon,' Monica suggested,
'All in good time.' He looked at the wall maps again. 'At least we have our forces well distributed – Newman and Marler in Greece, Butler and Nield on Exmoor. There's a name missing,'
'Who's that?'
'Anton. Trouble is he's a will o' the wisp. First he was back in Greece, then he slips into this country by some unknown means before slipping out again. I'd like to know how he managed that.'
After parking his car at The Anchor Butler went for a walk westward along the coast. It was dark and he passed several isolated cottages with lights burning inside. To his right he could hear the slap of the incoming sea hitting the rocks. He turned round, went back to The Anchor and into the bar. Nield was chatting to the barman, a young chap who polished glasses as he talked.
They have a ghost prowling the beaches at night,' Nield said to Harry, who ordered half a pint. 'Meet John, the barman, Local.'
'Not exactly a ghost,' John told Butler as he served him. 'A few weeks ago the old crone, Mrs Larcombe – lives in the end cottage – swears she saw flashing lights out at sea. Then another light flashing further west along the coast. Can't take her seriously.'
'Bats in the belfry?' suggested Butler, only half-listening.
'Hardly. Sharp as a tack. Local nosey parker. It was about the time that Portuguese ship, Oporto, was due to berth at Watchet.'
Butler frowned. 'Surely not at night – no ship could get inside Watchet except in broad daylight.'
They said it missed the tide, had to heave to offshore all night.'
Butler nodded, said to Nield he was hungry. Time for dinner.
Paula arrived back at nine o'clock. She took off her raincoat, sagged into the secretarial chair behind her desk, kicked off her shoes. Monica said she was making coffee. Paula grinned. 'Bless you.' Tweed leaned back in his chair, studying her.
'You look all in – and you're still wearing those glasses.'
'So I am. I'd forgotten them. Thank the Lord I was wearing my flatties. That Jill Kearns has the stamina of a goat.' Waiting until Monica had left the room, she looked at Tweed quizzically. 'I'm sure you could have ended up in bed with her. She's ravishing. And she's after you. You do know that?'
'The thought crossed my mind. Don't push it. Give me a report. About her movements.'
'Window-shopping for three days. Didn't buy a thing. Went all over the West End…'
'She didn't spot you?'
'Of course not. I wore that beret I had on in Brown's, took it off from time to time. Switched round my reversible raincoat – every conceivable variation…'
'But did she at any time use a public call box?' Tweed asked.
