still curse myself.'
'What happened? I doubt if you could have prevented it. Not in rush hour on the Rue St-Honore.' Paula commented.
'These drunken roughs, as I thought, almost formed a circle round us. My alarm bells started shrieking then, but it was too late.'
'What was too late?' Tweed enquired.
'It was the chap who had stumbled – appeared to -when he cannoned into Fournier. Said, 'Sorry, mate,' in English. As they disappeared Fournier gave a gulp and fell forward into my arms. I grabbed him round the waist and my right hand was sticky. Blood. The stumbler had rammed a knife up under Fournier's left shoulder blade. As he sagged I checked his pulse after I'd rested him against the window. Nothing. He was dead. A very professional job.'
'What about the motorcyclist gang?' Paula asked.
'They'd disappeared like the wind. I decided I'd better do likewise. Carrying a Walther without a certificate I didn't fancy an interview with the flics – or the big boys they'd summon. I signalled to Archie and left poor Fournier after telling a woman who'd stopped he'd had a heart attack and could she get a doctor. Not a thing I could do to help my informant.'
'And who is Archie?' Paula enquired. 'Archie who?'
'His second name doesn't matter. He's probably the best informant I have in the world. He's based in Paris but flits all over the place. When I arrived at De Gaulle Airport on the way in I'd phoned Archie, asked him to be close by as back-up. He's quite a character.'
'Where was he at the moment of the murder?' Tweed interjected.
'On the far side of the street in a doorway. I doubt if he saw much, with the traffic being so heavy. But he got my message and disappeared. That's it.'
'No, it isn't.' Paula persisted. 'What was the name Fournier mentioned on the phone which startled you -and then repeated in Paris before he was murdered?'
'I suppose I heard him correctly. He was gabbling on both occasions.' Marler paused to light a fresh king-size. Outwardly calm, Paula sensed he was upset by what he regarded as a lethal failure on his part.
'Leopold Brazil, if you can believe it…'
2
There was a stunned silence inside Tweed's office. Paula's and Monica's expressions suggested sheer disbelief. It was Paula who broke the silence.
'Leopold Brazil? The international power-broker? The mystery man who it's rumoured has the ear of the American President, our Prime Minister, the President of France, and Lord knows who else?'
'That was the name I'm pretty sure I heard.' Marler said. 'And Fournier mentioned it twice.'
'He must have made a mistake.' Paula insisted.
'Maybe.' intervened Tweed. 'I'll let you into a secret. For the past few weeks I've personally been making discreet enquiries about him. He's like a second Kissinger, but without the publicity. And like Kissinger he conducts shuttles between the world's capitals in his private jet when trouble is looming. He's a very powerful man and rich.' He paused. 'So powerful that earlier today I was summoned to Downing Street. Someone talked. I was told by the PM personally to discontinue making any more enquiries about Mr Brazil.'
'Keep off the grass.' Marler said laconically.
'So what are we going to do?' asked Paula.
She was interrupted by the phone ringing. Monica took the call, spoke briefly, then put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Tweed.
'It's Rene Lasalle, your old friend in the DST.' She was referring to the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, French counter-espionage.
Tweed pressed a button on his phone. He lifted the receiver and greeted the Frenchman cordially. Lasalle sounded agitated.
'Are you on scrambler?'
'Yes. You sound bothered.'
'Does your man, Marler, wear a shooting jacket and corduroy trousers?'
Tweed glanced at Marler who was dressed exactly as Lasalle had described.
'What's all this about?' Tweed asked tersely. 'I don't like questions about my staff any more than you would.'
'Has Marler visited Paris today?'
'Same reaction. I repeat, what is this all in aid of, Rene?'
'Murder.' Lasalle paused as though expecting Tweed to say something, but Tweed remained silent. 'Murder,' the Frenchman repeated. 'Cold-blooded murder in the middle of Paris. A man called Jules Fournier, occupation not known, was stabbed to death a few hours ago during the rush hour. In the Rue St-Honore, of all places.'
'So?'
'Fournier was with another man who laid the dead body against the window of a bar. He then told a woman – in French – Fournier had had a heart attack and told her to get a doctor.'
'So?' Tweed repeated.
'She gave a good description. A very observant lady. I was reminded of Marler.'
'No one else in the world looks like him? Is that what you're getting at?' Tweed demanded.
'What about the clothes description? Very British garb.'
'What about it?'
'Tweed, you're stalling…'
'I'm damned annoyed at your absurd assumption. And no, I've never seen the said person wearing such clothes. Also he's been in London all day. I can vouch for that myself.'
Heaven help me, Tweed thought, and that's one place I won't be going to. He changed the subject.
'While we're on the phone – on scrambler as we agreed earlier – have you got any further with your clandestine check on Leopold Brazil?'
'More rumours about him I don't like. That he's planning something global. Oh, I've been warned off checking any further on him. Would you believe it -I was summoned to the Elysee and the President himself told me Brazil was an important man and I would now stop any further investigation.'
'And your decision?'
'Blast the Elysee. They can sack me and I'll continue the investigation on my own time. Something's rotten in the state of Denmark.'
Tweed smiled to himself. Lasalle prided himself on using English colloquialisms and well-known phrases.
'Why not proceed very secretly? Only use a small circle of people you know you can trust with your life.'
'That is a small circle in today's world. Let's keep in touch. I'm sorry I went off the deep end when I started this call.'
'Forget it. Look after yourself. And I agree – we'll keep in touch …'
Tweed put down the phone. He stared at Marler.
'I went out on a limb there. Did you travel to Paris under your own name?'
'Of course not. I used one of my false passports. The call from Fournier bothered me so I took every precaution.'
'Get rid of those clothes fast. Lasalle has a woman witness – the one you spoke to after Fournier was killed -and she gave a perfect description of you. I'd like to have told Lasalle about the gang in motorcyclists' outfits, but I couldn't.'
'Understood. Agreed.' Marler said.
'You were never in Paris.' Tweed went on emphatically. 'If you were caught up in a murder investigation by the French police you could be kept there for weeks. Lasalle wouldn't be able to help you. Now, lose those clothes.'
