everything as though he was new to this type of work. Plus the fact that there was something patronizing in the other man's attitude. But Norton wasn't finished yet.
'Stay where you are. It's not just Tweed and his team we need to eliminate. I'm confident Joel Dyson will appear in this area
'Because my man spotted him outside the Zurcher Kredit in Basle, made him squawk…'
'And then let him escape alive,' rasped Norton. 'Not a great success, Mencken. Don't interrupt me again. Just concentrate on what I say. Joel Dyson must be eliminated. Equally important, that Special Agent FBI, Barton Ives, must be too. We need all of them wiped off the face of the earth.'
Mencken leaned forward. His nose was touching the curtain.
'I'll terminate the lot. It will be a blood bath.'
'Don't forget they could drive to the Chateau Noir by either route,' Norton reminded him,
'It will be a blood bath,'Mencken repeated.
33
Marler, typically, had told Tweed before leaving Basle that he'd hire his own car, make his own way to Colmar.
'I may not reach the Hotel Bristol until late in the evening,' he had warned.
Tweed, knowing Marler liked to operate on his own, had agreed immediately.
'See you at the Bristol then,' Marler ended jauntily.
Hiring an Audi, he had driven to Mulhouse. There, instead of continuing north along the autoroute to Colmar, he had turned west, heading for the Ballon d'Alsace in the southern region of the Vosges. He had reached the French glider airfield and had a long chat in his fluent French with the controller.
Marler, after training in Britain, was an expert in flying gliders. He had examined a machine, climbing into the confined cockpit. The controller had leaned against the side as Marler haggled over the price. He would want the glider for several days.
'Incidentally, you've seen my licence, but accidents happen. How much if I smash it up?'
'Sir, that would cost you a lot of money.'
'How much?'
The controller had told him and Marler had nodded. He knew Tweed had the funds to fork out if necessary. The deposit paid, Marler drove off, returning by the route he'd come until he joined the autoroute north near Mulhouse.
Keeping just inside the speed limit, he raced along the autoroute, bypassing Colmar, continuing north to the great river port of Strasbourg on the Rhine. Arriving there, he was driving much more sedately. Marler knew Europe as well as Newman, and he thought the ancient city unique.
The old city is perched on an island and spanned by many bridges. Marler parked his Audi outside and walked the rest of the way, crossing one of the bridges, glancing up to admire the medieval architecture. This was history, the Free City where once Protestant refugees had fled from French Catholic oppression. Which probably explained why it housed so many craftsmen in different fields. It was one of these craftsmen Marler was visiting. A gunsmith – who provided on the quiet the greatest range of weapons of any secret armaments supplier on the Continent.
Near the immense mass of the looming cathedral, Marler turned down a narrow stone-flagged alley. Suddenly he entered a world of silence, all sounds of traffic and human bustle gone.
He mounted a flight of worn stone steps to a landing on the first floor. Facing him was a massive studded wooden door with a Judas window. The only modern item in sight was a metal-grilled speakphone with a button alongside it. No indication as to who lived there.
'Who is it?' a quiet voice asked in French.
'Marler. You know me, Grandjouan. We've done business before.'
The Judas window opened, eyes peered out at him through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on a hooked nose. Marler waited while chains were removed, bolts pulled back, locks unfastened. The place was a fortress. The door swung open.
'Marler, indeed. So long since we last met. Come and join me for a glass of wine.'
Grandjouan was a hunchback with tiny feet. Marler was careful not to stare at his deformity. When his host had closed the door, chained and relocked it, they shook hands.
'I hadn't time to press the button, you old rascal,' Marler remarked. 'So how did you know someone had arrived?'
'One of my state secrets.' Grandjouan chuckled throatily. 'Now the wine…'
'Not for me, thank you so much. I have a long way to drive when we 've completed our business.'
'Such a pity. I have the most excellent Riesling.'
'Well, just a small glass.'
Grandjouan had a clean-shaven weathered face. Impossible even to guess his age. He had a nice smile and his eyes twinkled behind the spectacles as he handed Marler the glass.
'Sante!'
'Sante!' Marler repeated. This is very good.'
'I told you so. Now, as always you are a man in a hurry. So down to business.'
'I want an Armalite rifle, dismantled, with plenty of ammo. Twelve hand-grenades. A tear-gas pistol with a supply of shells. A Luger, again with ammo. All without any history.'
'Of course.' Grandjouan sipped again at his wine. 'I believe you are going to start a small war?'
'It could be something like that.'
Marler had carried from the car a cricket bag which contained a bat and several balls. He had put it on a table when he accepted the glass. Grandjouan looked at it, shook his head, covered with thinning grey hair.
'You proposed to carry these items away in that? Yes? I can do better. The container will come free, my friend.' He opened a cupboard, produced a cello case. 'Much better. It will take the load, which your cricket bag will not. Also we like some camouflage, in case you are stopped by the police.'
Grandjouan wore an old leather jacket with a woollen blue shirt underneath, open at the neck. His trousers were old but clean' corduroy. Marler looked round his lair as his host ferreted about.
The walls were lined with huge old wooden chests and cupboards. When Grandjouan opened one cupboard it was stacked to the gunwales. Heaven help any policeman who came to search this place. Illumination came from a large oval window in the slanting roof. Heating was provided by several oil heaters. The only reasonably modern item of furniture was the massive old fridge from which Grandjouan had taken the bottle of Riesling. The place reminded Marler of a hermit's cave.
Grandjouan returned holding a black beret in one hand, a folder of leather tucked under his other arm. He handed Marler the beret.
'You are English. Obvious – very – from the clothes you're wearing.'
Which was true. On the Continent Marler was always taken for what they imagined the typical Englishman to be, a member of the idle upper classes. His drawling way of speaking reinforced the impression. It had thrown more than one adversary off guard.
Under the British warm, which he had placed on an armchair, he wore a houndstooth sports jacket, heavy grey slacks, a blue cravat below his strong jaw. He looked at the beret.
'Why this?'
'You are posing as a musician with that cello case. The beret on an Englishman dressed as you are suggests the artistic temperament.'
'God forbid!'
'Wear it. And here in this folder are some sheets of music. Spread one or two on the car seat beside you. They will strengthen the impression that you are a musician.'
Marler glanced at the sheets. He paused at one sheet -
'La Jeune Fille aux Cheveux de Lin', 'The Girl with the Flaxen Hair'. Unconsciously he began to hum the tune
