'I'm a bit short of the readies.' He flicked index finger and thumb. 'Some of the folding stuff for the tip would most certainly not come amiss.'
'Who is proposing to pay this enormous premium?' Tweed asked.
'Presumably her latest billionaire boy friend back in the US of A.'
'Presumably? The boy friend has a name?'
'Sorry, I haven't got that far.'
'Maybe this anonymous boy friend hasn't got that far either. He could just hope to.'
'Mind if I smoke?'
Windermere extracted a gold cigarette case from his pocket and selected a Turkish cigarette with a flourish. On the outside was engraved a royal-looking crown. Undoubtedly a fake, Newman decided. Just like the owner.
Windermere was known to live off rich women. Once a male model, he was six feet tall, and took care to keep his weight down at a health club. This was one place where he encountered female prospects. He was wearing a white linen suit, which was ridiculous for the time of the year. He hardly ever stopped smiling, which Newman described as a smirk. He had a head of thick hair and too-perfect features.
'How did you come by this information?' Tweed probed.
'Met her at a party, didn't I? She's something else again – a real knock-out. Intelligent with it. Told me during the course of our long conversation. Think she rather liked me. I took the liberty of mentioning your organization.'
'Who mentioned my name?'
'She did, as a matter of fact. Hope you don't mind.' 'Don't do it again,' Tweed said. 'I don't tout for any of my business.'
'Any chance of a small advance for the tip?'
'None at all. Too vague.'
'A couple of hundred pounds would make me happy.'
'Try your luck with the lottery.'
'Suppose I'd better love you and leave you.' Windermere stood up. The hostile reception has at last penetrated his thick skull, Newman said to himself. 'I had a coat.'
Monica was already taking down his white coat from a hook. She simply handed it to him without making any effort to help him on with it. Windermere stood very still, glancing round the spartan office. Newman could see why he would be attractive to a certain type of woman.
'Don't think I know you,' Windermere remarked, addressing Marler.
'You don't.'
'And what a charming lady,' Windermere went on, gazing at Paula.
She had her head down, studying some papers. She appeared not to have heard him.
'Newman will accompany you to the door,' Tweed told him.
'Let's keep in touch, you beautiful people…'
Newman had the door open. As he closed it and followed their visitor down the stairs Windermere began talking over his shoulder.
'I say, Bob, maybe we could have a drink together one evening.'
'Maybe.'
'I frequent Bentleys in Swallow Street. You'd find me there about eight in the evening. In their sumptuous bar downstairs.'
'George,' Newman called out, 'our visitor is leaving if you'd unlock the door…'
Windermere paused just outside the exit to button up his coat. Newman stayed inside after glancing outside across the Crescent. As George was closing the door Newman ran back upstairs into Tweed's office. He looked annoyed.
'Why on earth did you let that gigolo get inside here?' he asked.
'To see if he'd provide me with any information. He did,' Tweed replied.
'You mean about someone insuring Sharon Mandeville for thirty million dollars?'
'No. That was nonsense. His excuse for coming here to check up on my staff, to identify as many as he could. Marler caught on and so did Paula. So who could be anxious to penetrate our organization?'
'Sharon Mandeville,' Newman suggested.
'Not necessarily. Windermere babbles on but is a stranger to the truth. He may not have even met the delectable Sharon, as he described her.'
'Well,' Newman retorted as he sat down, 'you might be interested to know that everyone who leaves this building is being photographed. This time a Lincoln Continental is parked out on the main road. I caught a glimpse of a man aiming a camera at Windermere as he was leaving.'
'Get a picture of you?' Tweed enquired.
'No, I kept well back.'
'I don't understand it,' protested Paula. 'First a Cadillac, now a Lincoln Continental. If it is an American gang you'd think they'd use British cars. Why American?'
'To intimidate us,' Tweed told her. 'I expect their campaign to get a lot worse, even more aggressive. But enough of that. Bob, you arrived back just in time. Marler has discovered who assassinated the Prime Minister.'
'Up to a point,' Marler drawled in his upper-crust accent. 'I'm just back from Paris,' he explained to Newman. 'While over in Gay Paree, as the Yanks used to call it, I met three of my informants in various seedy parts of the city. The first two couldn't give me the time of day.'
'They didn't know?' Newman queried.
'The question scared them stiff. Then I met the Ear in another low-down bar.'
'The Ear?' asked Paula, puzzled.
'That's his nickname in the French underworld. He has guts. He plays both sides. For money, of course. By both sides I'm referring to the police and the underworld. And what I have just said is utterly confidential.'
'He's playing a dangerous game,' Newman commented.
'With great skill,' Marler told him. 'He's helped the Prefect of Paris to put some very lethal saboteurs – especially from Algeria – behind bars. Bit of a patriot, the Ear.'
'And was he also scared stiff when you put the question to him?' Newman suggested.
'Not a bit of it. He just doubled his normal fee, which I was happy to pay. This assassin is pretty damned good. He killed that French Minister a few weeks ago, the one who made a powerful speech attacking the Americans, accusing them of trying to take over the world. A month before that he took out Heinz Keller, the German politician who is anti-American and might have one day become Chancellor of Germany.'
'Sounds as though the assassin is American,' Paula speculated.
'That's one thing he isn't,' Marler corrected her. 'It makes sense when you come to think of it. If he was ever caught Washington would take worldwide flak. Our friends across the Atlantic appear to have become more sophisticated. Diabolical might be the word.'
'Do we get a name?' Newman prodded impatiently. 'Why not?' Marler said offhandedly. 'He's called the Phantom.'
'He sounds very sinister,' Paula commented.
'Sinister,' Marler agreed, 'highly skilled and professional. He assassinated the heavily guarded Prime Minister. Afterwards Special Branch never found the rifle he used. Imagine smuggling that away with a horde of security men checking everyone they could find. And the devil's firing point was the rooftop of a warehouse used for storing books. A repeat of Dallas all those years ago.'
'Has the Ear any clue as to his nationality?' pressed Newman.
'He's European, could even be an Englishman. The Ear stressed that was a rumour. He didn't know whether it was true.'
'So his identity is completely unknown?' Newman asked.
'Completely. Rumoured he has a number of girl friends. Again the Ear emphasized that also was no more than a rumour.'
'So we have no name.'
