'Company car.'
She unlocked it and the courtesy light came on. Expensive clothes were thrown together on a seat as though they were rags. She rummaged through them, hauled out a pair of blue silk pyjamas. As she did so something beneath the pile of clothing slid out onto the floor. A crash helmet.
They entered the centuries-old building which was the Priory Hotel under a stone arch into an enclosed courtyard unevenly paved with cobbles. Thrusting ahead, Eve pushed open the heavy wooden door leading into reception. Behind a narrow counter the proprietor, a warm able-looking man, greeted Philip.
'Glad to see you back, sir. There was an urgent phone call for you from Monica. She asked you to call her the moment you returned. You can use this phone…'
Tactfully the proprietor disappeared as Philip grasped the phone. Behind him Eve enquired: 'And who is Monica?'
'My aunt.' Philip said quickly. 'She's looking after my house.' he continued, lying smoothly.
'I'm going down to my suite. See you in the bar…'
Philip would have preferred a less public phone but he was alone when he dialled Park Crescent. Monica, Tweed's assistant, spoke hurriedly.
'I'm putting my boss on the line…'
'Tweed here.' the familiar voice said. 'Are you calling from the hotel?'
'Yes…'
'Then get to a public phone damned fast and call me back.'
The line went dead.
Philip, still wearing his duffel coat, hurried back into the night which was now dry and still bitterly cold with a star-studded sky above him. Earlier, arriving at Ware-ham, he had noticed a phone box in South Street, no more than a five-minute walk away at the pace he moved. South Street was deserted as he entered the phone box, carrying a heavy torch he'd retrieved from his car. It had a powerful beam and was heavy, padded with rubber. A useful weapon if he happened to encounter Black Leather.
Tweed himself answered the phone, began speaking rapidly after checking where Philip was speaking from.
'All hell has broken loose down there. General Sterndale's house has gone up in flames. The fire brigade has recovered two bodies – the General's and that of his son, Richard, burnt to a cinder but just recognizable.'
'We saw the mansion burning from a distance…'
'We?'
'I'll explain later. I thought I saw a four-wheel-drive leaving with several men aboard…'
'Thought?'
'Yes, I couldn't be sure. It all happened so quickly.'
'In that case you saw nothing if you're questioned by the police. I'm referring to the phantom vehicle.'
'Why…?'
'Just listen. The fire brigade chief on the spot called the police chief at Dorchester. Because Sterndale was such a bigwig Dorchester contacted Scotland Yard. As luck -bad luck – would have it he talked to my old sparring partner, Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan. He may be on his way down there now by chopper. You could find yourself being grilled by him, so watch it.'
'But I don't understand. Buchanan is Homicide.'
'The fire chief reported the whole of the exterior of the mansion had been sprayed with petrol. This was no accident. It was arson. Cold-blooded murder.'
'Oh, my God…'
'I said listen. I've just phoned the General's niece – I know her slightly. She told me the bulk of the bank's capital was kept by the General in his study at the mansion. In the form of bearer bonds – negotiable anywhere and no questions asked. He left just enough cash in the branches to keep them turning over.'
'How much money are we talking about?'
'Three hundred million pounds. Plus. I must go now. You stay put down there. Mooch around a bit in the morning, but go carefully. And I've sent you help back-up.'
'Who?'
'He could be there now. You'll recognize him when you see him.. .'
1
Philip walked more slowly back to the hotel. He wanted to get his thoughts into order. Arson? Murder? And he had witnessed it with Eve. He arranged the facts in sequence.
At the cliff edge he was sure he'd seen signal lights out at sea flashing, lights which were answered by what appeared to be an empty old hulk of a house. If he had seen them. Eve had denied seeing anything and already he had realized she didn't miss much.
Then the horrific fire. And the vehicle he had seen rushing away inland. If he had seen a vehicle. At the Scott Arms the burly motorcyclist who had walked past their booth. Nothing to that. Except later they'd been followed all the way back to the Priory by a motorcyclist – one solid fact which was not the product of an over-heated imagination brought on by the devilishly attractive Eve.
As he pushed open the wooden door into the lobby of the hotel he felt grateful to Tweed for warning him to say very little. Taking off his duffel coat, he walked along the corridor and peered into the bar, which was a separate room at the end. He had another shock.
Eve, seated almost with her back to him, had changed into a dark blue dress, a gold belt encircling her waist, with her long shapely legs crossed, revealed by a deep slit in the skirt. She was talking to Bob Newman, who sat listening to her, poker-faced, with a glass of Scotch in his hand.
So this was the 'help' Tweed had despatched so urgently as back-up. Newman, foreign correspondent, was a trusted and close friend of Tweed's. He had been fully vetted long ago. Now in his forties, he had taken part fully and with great effectiveness in several SIS missions.
Philip decided to leave them alone for a few minutes while he went on collecting his thoughts. He had not been seen as he slipped into the empty comfortable lounge at the rear of the hotel, sat down on a couch. I wonder what they're talking about, Philip mused.
Bob Newman had arrived earlier that evening, in the dark, after a hair-raising drive down to Wareham. Newman liked to put his foot down behind the wheel, but never had a drink before driving. Registering, he had taken his case up to his room, had thrown back the lid, quickly hung up a few jackets, then made his way down to the bar for a much-needed Scotch.
The bar, a long room with the counter on his left as he entered, was empty except for the barman. And an attractive woman wearing a dark blue dress. She had made the first move as he prepared to sit some distance from her.
'I'm on my own. Could we possibly chat together over our drinks? You're Robert Newman, the world-famous correspondent. I recognize you from pictures in the world press.'
'Not world famous. Notorious is the word,' he told her as he sat in an armchair close to her. 'Cheers!'
'I don't see many articles by you these days.' she went on, flashing him a warm smile. 'I suppose that best- selling book you wrote, Kruger: The Computer Which Failed, must have netted you a fortune. It went all over the world and is still in print.'
'It made me comfortably off.' he said shortly.
No point in revealing he was a millionaire. You didn't say that to strange women. Newman didn't say it to anyone. She was studying him.
He would be about five feet ten tall, well-built, strong face, clean-shaven with light brown hair and an aura of a man who had been about and seen the world at its best -and its worst. A very tough individual, she was thinking, but pleasant on the rare occasions when he smiled.
'I'm Eve Warner, by the way.' she remarked.
'What do you do to earn a daily crust?' he asked. 'Or are you a lady of leisure?'
