Rhinoceros

'Thank you, Monica,' Tweed said quietly and opened both envelopes. 'Now let me see what he says about the autopsy.'

'And, Paula,' Monica went on, 'that sealed yellow envelope on your desk is from Art Baldwin. It's the photos you took of Eagle's Nest on the Downs. Art insisted he had to be present when you opened it.'

'He's a boffin,' said Newman. 'Like all scientific types he has tunnel vision. Nothing exists outside his world.'

'Not yet,' Tweed ordered. 'I've almost finished both reports and you'd better know what they contain…'

Not for the first time Paula marvelled at Tweed's agile brain. Besides having total recall of conversations and a first-class memory, he was also a speed-reader. He pushed aside the reports, took off his glasses, cleaned them on a new handkerchief, perched them back on his nose.

'Saafeld's report is damning,' he began. 'An open-and-shut case of murder regarding Jeremy Mordaunt. Which links up with my own conclusions. Monica, take a copy of each report, put them in an envelope addressed 'Personal, for attention Gavin Thunder', send them at once to the Ministry by courier.'

'The Minister will explode,' Paula commented. 'I gather he was so determined it should be suicide.'

'Can't be helped,' Tweed replied as Monica collected copies off his desk. 'Now, our visit to Eaton Square. Anyone suspect something was wrong when we were inside the drawing room?'

'I did,' Paula replied. 'She didn't know where the drinking glasses were kept. Went to the wrong cupboard. When we got there she'd been drinking vile sherry out of a water glass. Clearly, after she'd arrived she couldn't be bothered to look for the right glass so she grabbed one from the kitchen. On our way out she chose the wrong key to open the front door. Then the furnishings of the room didn't fit her personality.'

'Very good. What was that question you asked her about a pet name for Jeremy?'

'I thought I might throw her off balance – and I did. I'd given her the impression we knew the pet name. She couldn't answer me.'

'Then we meet the haughty lady who lives there and she confirms our suspicions – although we'd already spotted the so-called Mrs Mordaunt was a fake.'

'Why would someone send her to impersonate Mrs Mordaunt?'

'Presumably,' Tweed speculated, 'someone guessed I would think of visiting Mrs Mordaunt. So they replaced her with a woman who would give me all the right answers. Building up the idea that Jeremy had reasons to commit suicide.' He blinked. 'And that could be the same someone who arranged for me to be killed. No, it couldn't be the same person. If they thought I'd be dead the charade of creating a fake Mrs Mordaunt would be pointless. I'm missing something here.'

'So where is the real Mrs Mordaunt?'

'That mystery worries me a great deal. I think I'd better call Roy Buchanan and ask him to start a search for her. Now…'

He was on the phone when Harry Butler came in. In his large fist he held a folded sheet of paper. He sat down while Tweed spoke to Buchanan.

'What's that piece of paper you're holding?' asked Paula, as curious as a cat.

'Wait. Then you'll see.'

He handed the sheet to Tweed the moment he finished his call. Sitting upright, he spoke as Tweed opened the sheet.

'Remember that chopper that followed us back from Alfriston? It did look to me as if it had taken off from Lord Barford's estate.'

'How high would you say it was when you saw it?'

'At a guess, about a thousand feet.'

'Was it gaining height?' Tweed persisted.

'No, cruising along.'

'Then it could easily have been the chopper we saw grounded at Rondel's place.'

'If you'd read my report. Just extracts from the file we have on Lord Barford.'

Tweed, surprised that Harry should have thought of checking the file, read the short report twice. Then he leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was frowning.

'That was clever of you, Harry,' he said eventually. 'You left out that, after leaving the Army, Bernard Barford was chief of Special Branch for a while.'

'Didn't seem relevant.'

'I agree. What is relevant is that he owns a Sikorsky helicopter, commutes to London in it. Must have a pilot – I know he's never flown a plane in his life.'

He looked at Paula. She told him Monica had typed the report. He transferred his gaze to Newman.

'That means,' Newman remarked, 'we don't know which chopper tailed us to London, doubtless reporting our whereabouts – so that gunman could be waiting for us.'

'I could get Art Baldwin up here,' Paula suggested. 'Then we can open his envelope of pics, the ones I took. He'll go mad if I open it before he's with us.'

'Heaven save us from boffins,' Newman snapped. 'Although I will admit Art is undoubtedly the best interpreter of photos in the country.'

Tweed nodded to Monica, who phoned for Baldwin to come up. Within a minute there was a gentle tapping on the door. Tweed called out, 'Come in.' The door opened and a small man whose face vaguely resembled a squirrel's crept in. He wore thick-lensed glasses. Paula smiled and waved for him to come over. As she was opening the large envelope, Art spoke in a squeaky voice.

'I've printed the photos you took in Sussex. Original size and various enlargements.' He took a folding magnifying glass from his pocket. 'Very intriguing. I have comments.'

Everyone in the office, except Monica, got up, gathered round Paula's desk. She spread out the prints. She had used the new camera, invented by the basement boffins. At night it took very clear pictures without needing a flash.

'The chopper in the background,' Newman said. 'Can we bring that up more clearly, please?'

Art unfolded the small boxlike magnifying glass, positioned it over the helipad area. Newman peered down at it, grunted. Then he straightened up and whistled before he spoke.

'That, ladies and gentlemen, is a Sikorsky.'

'So,' mused Paula, 'that chopper which followed us…' She broke off, remembering Baldwin was with them. She had been going to say 'the helicopter could have come from Rondel's place.'

'I'm also deeply interested in that mast with a complex dish at the top of it,' Tweed said.

'Fred,' Baldwin began, 'who, as you know, is an expert on communications systems, said that dish is something advanced, something entirely new.'

He placed the magnifier over the dish. Paula sensed that Art was nervous, wasn't going to say anything more. She looked at Tweed and realized he'd had the same reaction. Newman peered at the image and shook his head. It meant nothing to him.

'That was it?' asked Tweed.

'Fred did tell me to keep his other conclusions from you until he'd completed his researches,' Art replied.

'So what is he keeping secret? I need to know now,' demanded Tweed.

'He is wondering whether the dish is designed to operate laser beams of enormous power that can eliminate any signals from all the satellites orbiting the earth.'

'Tell Fred to continue his researches, to drop everything else and concentrate on that dish.'

'I will. Can I go now?' Art asked timidly.

Paula knew he was not comfortable with a crowd of people. He practically lived in the basement. Had his meals brought in from a local deli. She blinked at Tweed once.

'Of course you can go,' Tweed said breezily. 'And my thanks for the good work you've done.'

'Just doing my job,' Art mumbled and almost ran to the door.

Tweed walked over to the windows and gazed across at distant Regent's Park. He remained there for several minutes, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. Paula put her index finger to her lips to stop anyone talking. When Tweed swung round he walked briskly to his desk, sat down, looked round the room.

'I checked the number plate of that limo which drove away from Eaton Square,' Newman reported. 'Through contacts I've got. It was hired from Malibu Motors in Mayfair. I called them, saying I was Special Branch. A Miss