time in travelling all the way from Brussels to see me. As I expected, I have found our conversation stimulating and illuminating. You appear to be engaged in a most dangerous occupation. Let us hope you survive for many more years.'
`I expect to do just that,' Tweed replied tersely.
Dr Wand must have pressed a button. The door opened and the butler appeared, holding the handle and standing erect as he gazed straight ahead. Wand ignored Newman, made no further reference to him, and again he made no attempt to shake hands in the Belgian fashion.
Escorting them across the hall, the butler opened a small metal casing attached to the wall. He frowned.
`The gates do not appear to have closed properly.' `Well, just make sure you open them properly,' Newman suggested jovially.
When they drove away down the drive the gates were wide open. Newman stopped in the road, ran back, replaced the stone by the garden border, returned to the car, and headed back for Brussels.
Inside his study Dr Wand sat in the gloom, his hands clasped in his lap. He sat quite motionless, thinking at top speed. When the phone rang he reached for the receiver automatically, half his mind thousands of miles away.
`Yes?'
`This is Anne-Marie,' a woman's voice said, as always using her code-name. 'I am speaking from a call box.'
`A most wise precaution, I am sure. You have some news for me?'
`Yes. From a fairly brief observation of Miss Grey and her employer I would say they are very close to each other.'
`You believe that she is his mistress?'
`No. I don't think it's that kind of a relationship. I do think he is very fond of her, that he regards her as invaluable as well as a friend.'
`I find that interesting, most interesting indeed. A man may discard a mistress without a qualm, but pure friendship goes deeper. Continue, if you would be so kind, to communicate with me regularly. Goodbye…'
The phone call decided Wand to take certain action he had only been contemplating. Earlier Dr Hyde had called him from Liege, giving him the name of his hotel, its phone number and his room number. Wand dialled the number of the Liege hotel, asked to be put through to Dr Hyde.
`Who is this calling?' the soothing voice of Dr Hyde enquired cautiously.
`Your patron is calling you…' The use of this word amused Wand: Dr Hyde was a loyal servant only because he was paid so well. 'You recognize my voice?'
`Indeed I do. How may I be of service?'
`There may well be another patient requiring treatment at your hands. A woman. There may be a delay. It is a question of securing her availability. I will call you when the time is right. In the mean time I suggest you remain where you are. You can always sample the delights of Liege…'
`Dr Wand is an even more evil character than he appears in the photos Marler took of him,' Newman remarked as he parked in front of the Hilton.
`That trick of yours with the lighter was clever,' Tweed replied. 'And I agree with you. Some villains are difficult to detect – they have the charm of the devil. But in that brief moment when your lighter flared I had the impression we were in the presence of the Devil himself. A man capable of ordering the bizarre and horrific treatment of Irene Andover. To say nothing of arranging for the Liege assassin to drive down poor Andover.'
`Whom he referred to as a crackpot,' Newman recalled.
`And that was a tactical error. An unusual mistake for Dr Wand to make, I'd guess. His object was to discredit Andover's global theories. Why? Because they are true, I suspect,' he remarked as they stepped into the elevator.
`You went overboard yourself a bit when you talked of us closing in on our target.'
`Deliberately. I wanted to disturb him. I think that I succeeded. A disturbed man can make a fatal blunder.'
`You talked a moment ago about the horrific treatment of Irene Andover,' Newman reminded him. 'You really think a top-flight doctor is involved – the amputations I'm thinking of. Irene's severed arm. Lucie Delvaux's severed hand. Sheer cold-blooded butchery.'
`I'll know whether it took a skilled surgeon after I've seen Dr Rabin in London.' He checked his watch. 'I'll just have time to pick up my packed bag and the radar device from the deposit box.' They entered Room 2009.
`And both Butler and Nield are going back with you?'
`No. A change of plan. You are in charge while I'm away. Harry Butler will accompany me back to London. But Pete Nield will stay in Brussels. He has a special job to do. Give him this instruction from me. He is to guard Paula night and day – and I do mean guard. He must never let her out of his sight. Warn Marler, too…'
He had just spoken when there was a tap on the door. Newman opened it and Marler walked in with Paula.
`I've got five minutes,' Tweed told them.
Marler gave him a terse report of their locating the colony of new houses outside Ghent. Tweed looked grim as he picked up his case.
`The Mongols infiltrated spies ahead of their armies. It looks as though Wand's apparatus is already widespread. We may well move fast when I get back from London.'
26
Landing at London Airport, Tweed made a brief call to Dr Rabin after passing through Passport Control and Customs. No one asked to see inside the large executive case he was carrying.
Butler waited close to the phone Tweed made his call from. He thought Tweed looked relieved when he joined him after completing the call. Taciturn by nature, Butler made no enquiry as they hurried out to locate the car Tweed had phoned for from the Hilton.
`A good trip, sir?'
It was George, one of the ex-Army men who acted as guards at Park Crescent. Tweed nodded and George led them to the car parked in the short-term garage. Climbing into the back, Tweed gave George an address in Harley Street. Dr Rabin, a widower, had kept on the rooms he had used as a general consultant before specializing in pathology.
After the bustle and shabbiness of Brussels Tweed found it a relief to get out into the peace and quiet of Harley Street with its solid buildings. Butler sat in the waiting room, hugging the executive case with the rest of their luggage by his side.
`I have the results of my examination,' Rabin informed Tweed briskly. 'Something very strange here.'
They were sitting in a cheerfully furnished living- room, facing each other in armchairs across a low table. On the table was a silver tray with a Spode tea-set which had been laid by a neatly dressed housekeeper.
Rabin was a short, stocky man in his late fifties. He had a large round head, white hair, a trim white moustache, and wore a blue business suit. His crisp manner always reminded Tweed of that out-moded phrase, an officer and a gentleman – without a trace of snobbery.
`Strange?' Tweed queried, revelling in the tea he was sipping. 'In what way?'
`Let's take the girl first. The severed arm was amputated by an exceptionally skilled professional surgeon. No doubt about it. This was further confirmed when I examined the body. She was killed, by the way, with an injection of potassium cyanide. The hypodermic was thrust into the upper arm through her clothing. Nothing professional about that.'
`That is why you used the word strange?'
`Partly. So two different people were involved. A surgeon who carried out the amputation – and someone else who killed her.'
`Do you mind if I phone Brussels? We may have a similar case there.'
