room. She never heard a thing.'
'Any money missing?'
'Strange you should ask that,' the Frenchman commented. 'In each case a lot of the capital was held in bearer bonds. They've vanished. How the hell am I supposed to trace bearer bonds?'
'The banks have gone bust?' Tweed enquired.
'No. Enough cash was kept in each branch to keep them solvent. Tweed, I'm up to my neck, over my head.'
'You'll swim to the surface,' Tweed assured him. 'You always do. Keep in touch…'
Tweed sighed to himself as he put down the phone. Monica asked him whether she should still call Arthur Beck and he nodded. She began dialling immediately.
'Beck here. What is it, Tweed?'
The Swiss police chief, normally genial and calm however fraught a situation, sounded brusque.
'Arthur, a little while ago you mentioned an assassin, a professional, called The Motorman. Have you had any luck identifying him?'
'Why?'
'He's been operating in France…'
'I know that…'
'Well, what you probably don't know is that he's now in this country as far as we can tell. He tried to kill a key witness to a double murder but by mistake murdered the wrong man.'
'First time he's made a mistake.' There was a pause. 'I don't like this – he's becoming very international. I've got nowhere tracking him down. He just disappears into thin air. He's responsible for killing three Swiss.'
'What were their professions?'
'Bankers.'
'Owners of small private long-established banks?'
'How on earth did you guess that? We've kept silent about his activities. I thought that might throw him off his guard.'
'And you know it was The Motorman because with all his three victims he broke their necks?'
'Yes. He's the bloody Invisible Man. No amount of top security can keep him out. You can imagine how security-conscious bankers are.'
'He bypasses their security in some weird way?'
'Oh, I think I've now worked that out. Tweed, he talks his way in. In all three cases the security was still intact. I'm wondering now if he has an attractive woman with him when he calls to help get him inside.'
'Could The Motorman be a woman?' Tweed speculated.
'She'd have to be pretty strong. One of the bankers was built like a bull. Didn't save him. And there's no sign of a struggle in all three cases. Except with the bull, whose feet scuffed up the carpet.'
'To change the subject, do you know anything about a Leopold Brazil?'
Another pause, a long one. Tweed, I've been warned off making any enquiries about him.'
'I don't believe it. Nobody warns you off. Who are you talking about?'
'That I can't tell you. Damn it, no one pushes me up against the wall. He has an expensive villa along the lake in Zurich. Between you and me I am watching discreetly. Very discreetly. Something strange about that man with all his power. I'll tell you he flew off in his private jet from Kloten, Zurich, on his way to Paris.'
'What kind of a jet?'
'Well, here's the tricky part. He has two private jets, both Lears. One has Brazil SA, the name of his Swiss company, in huge letters along the fuselage. The other, painted white, has no markings identifying that it belongs to him. He uses the white jet to confuse watchers whether he's aboard or not. Both have aircrews standing in rotas twenty-four hours round the clock. It was the white job which flew to Charles de Gaulle. That's it.'
Tweed put down the phone. His concentration on what Beck had told him was so great he hadn't noticed Monica was holding her phone, staring at him impatiently.
'Lasalle is back on the line from Paris. He's asked me twice to make sure you're on scrambler.'
'I still am,' Tweed said, and picked up the phone again. 'Sorry to keep you hanging on.'he said into the mouthpiece.
'I told you I was warned off investigating Leopold Brazil. Which is why I omitted to tell you he flew in yesterday from Zurich. A limo with tinted windows met him and drove him to his villa in the Avenue Foch. One of my best men identified him as he left the limo.'
'So why tell me now.'
'Because I'm sure now he's on his way to Britain within the next two hours.'
Tweed half-closed his eyes. Paula noted the mannerism, which told her he was tense.
'How do you know that?'
'The pilot of his white Lear jet just filed a flight plan for two hours hence.'
'To where?'
'Bournemouth International Airport. In Dorset…'
Tweed thanked Lasalle briefly, jumped up from his desk, ran to a cupboard, hauled out two cases kept packed for emergency departures – one for himself, the other for Paula.
'We'll take the Ford Escort,' he snapped. 'I'll drive. You'd better bring your Browning automatic. Monica, phone the Priory Hotel. Book us each a room. Indefinite stay. You can reach me there, but wrap up any message.'
'What's the emergency?' Paula asked.
She had already opened a locked drawer, taken out her Browning. 32 automatic, slipped it into the special pocket sewn into her shoulder bag which gave her instant access to the weapon. Tweed was studying the map of Dorset on the wall.
'Monica,' he rapped out before she could dial, 'if Newman phones tell him to post one man at the roundabout just south of Stoborough Green. Not Stoborough. Stoborough Green. I want another man posted to watch the ferry across the exit from Poole Harbour. Both are watching for a limousine with tinted-glass windows. If either man spots it they are to follow it with caution. My guess is it will be headed for Grenville Grange, in the Purbecks near Lyman's Tout. Leave you in charge…'
Paula caught him up as he jumped in behind the wheel of the Ford Escort parked outside as she slid into the front passenger seat.
'What is the emergency?' she repeated.
'Leopold Brazil is headed our way – flying within two hours from Paris to Bournemouth International Airport.' He was already driving towards Baker Street as Paula fastened her seat belt. 'From Bournemouth International he has to drive by one of only two routes – and we'll have watchers checking. Which means we should beat him to Wareham.'
'What is happening? Everything has suddenly moved.'
'I think Dorset is about to explode…'
6
'It's no good.' Newman said as he drove up the steep, winding hill to Kingston, leaving Corfe behind. 'Your Eve Warner is a damned good driver and I'm not going to lose her.' He checked his rear-view mirror. 'She's just come round that snaky bend like a pro at Brand's Hatch.'
'In that case.' Marler drawled from his curled-up position on the rear floor, 'my hiding is a waste of time. Warn me when you come to another bend and I'll get up, perch in a corner. When she sees me she may think I was sitting like that all the time.'
'Then get ready… Now!'
Newman had accelerated suddenly, swinging round a dangerous curve. In the back Marler scrambled up, settled himself in a corner of the seat, eased the ache out of his legs.
'Perfect! She didn't see you.' Newman reported.
