Rhinoceros

'Yes and no. I would appreciate your account of what you saw. One of my men recognized you near Reefers Wharf.'

'We didn't see any uniformed police until it was nearly all over,' Newman said caustically.

'That was because I took an unorthodox decision. I sent in teams in plain clothes so they didn't become a target. They ended up arresting twenty thugs.'

'That was clever,' Tweed commented. 'What did we see…'

He gave Buchanan an abbreviated report. Buchanan was writing in his notebook. He had just put his notebook away

– Tweed had made no mention of Lisa – when Monica arrived with the coffee. He drank half a cup, asked his question.

'Any clue as to who is behind them? Here? On the continent? In the States? Pity we hadn't an American contact.'

Mark Wendover had once more not arrived. Nor had he contacted Tweed, who was getting used to the American's independent habits. He shook his head as he answered the question.

'Not a clue. I'm investigating possible sources of finance.'

'Good idea. Very. Jumping to another topic, ever heard of a Mr Blue?'

'Yes,' said Marler. 'What do you know?'

'Only the name. One of my undercover men heard a reference to him in a sleazy nightclub. Made by a man who knows things no one else knows. I only asked because the name struck me.' He looked at Marler. 'Your turn.'

'Mr Blue,' Marler began, 'is the strangest case I've ever come across. Rumour hath it – no more than rumour- that he's a top-class assassin. The weird thing is he's not for hire, no matter how much the money offered on the grapevine. He selects his own targets. That really is weird.'

'So we know nothing,' Buchanan commented. 'Jumping now to a third topic, a murder case. Here in town. In a flat off Ebury Street. I was nearby so I went and interviewed the landlady who rents out the flat. The victim, a Helga Trent, was shot dead from a window across the street. So was her dog.'

'Sounds unusual,' said Tweed quickly.

'I've got here…' Buchanan took a thick sheet of paper, cartridge, from his envelope, gave it to Tweed. 'That's a picture one of our artists drew from the landlady's description of a sister Helga who was visiting her. The sister who rented the flat has since vanished.'

Tweed, his face expressionless, looked down at the drawing. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a woman with long red hair. It was a surprisingly good likeness of Lisa.

Tweed stood up. He walked towards Newman and Paula with his back to Buchanan. He was frowning a warning at them. Paula looked at the portrait, shook her head.

'Can't help you.'

Tweed presented the portrait to Newman, who took his time studying it. He handed it back to Tweed.

'A good-looker. Wish I did know her.'

'Well, it was a long shot,' Buchanan remarked as he returned the paper to its envelope. 'But you lot mix with a whole variety of people.'

'We do,' Tweed agreed. 'If you'd like to have a copy of the portrait reduced to a small size – something I could carry in my pocket – we just might spot her here in town.'

'Make you three copies. One for you, one for Paula and one for Newman.'

'Before you go,' Marler interjected as Buchanan started to stand up. 'Any news from Dorset?'

'I knew there was something else.' The superintendent sat down again. 'The Chief Constable down there had a chopper up all night. They changed crews and the chopper tried its luck in daylight. Not a thing. No sighting of a crowd of men like Tweed described – from what you saw. No buses, but they could have hidden them in old barns.'

'I don't suppose this Mr Blue could have killed Helga Trent?' Marler suggested.

'It is a very strange case,' Buchanan ruminated. 'The landlady said Helga was older than her sister but also had long red hair and looked a bit like her. The body was lying under a window with heavy net curtains. Two bullet holes in the window. One for Helga, the other for the dog. It crossed my mind that maybe the killer had shot the wrong target – that he was after Helga's sister and thought he saw her as Helga stood behind the curtains, with the light on behind her.'

'Anything to back up that theory?' Tweed asked.

'The fact that the younger sister has vanished – and made no attempt to call the police. Mind you, the landlady said they didn't get on. Helga tried to dominate her younger sister – the landlady heard arguments. I must go now…'

Monica held the door open for him, peered down the stairs. Sergeant Warden was sitting motionless on a chair facing George, the guard. As usual, Warden looked like a wooden Indian.

When Monica came back into the room Paula had shifted her desk chair in front of where Tweed was sitting. She sat down.

'That gave me a shock,' she said. 'That drawing is a perfect likeness of Lisa.'

'Almost,' he said. 'I congratulate both you and Bob for reacting the way you did.'

'You don't want Lisa bothered by police while she's ill,' Newman suggested.

'That comes first. Is most important. But I also think she is the key to this huge crisis building up. I think Buchanan is right in his theory. Lisa was the killer's target. We must keep her guarded night and day.'

'Harry has just gone over to the clinic to relieve Pete Nield,' Newman reported. 'I'm next on duty. No one will get at her.'

'I'll phone the clinic, see how she's progressing,' Tweed decided.

While he was speaking to Master neither Paula, Marler, nor Newman said a word. Paula sensed an atmosphere of tension in the room. After a while Tweed put the phone down.

'Master says she has severe concussion. He wants to keep her there until she's completely recovered. Warned me it could take weeks and he'll keep me informed.'

'I'd hoped for more,' Paula said quietly.

'I'm sure we all did. There's no skull fracture, thank God. Master also said he's sure she was exhausted and that has not helped.'

'She would be, after last night,' Newman commented.

'I have an idea,' Marler began. 'I'd like to go and check out that area round Ebury Street. The killer knew where Lisa was staying. That means he followed her. Might have located her pad days ago. That's what I'd have done in his place.'

'So what would you be looking for?' Newman enquired.

'His base – where he shacked up while he waited for the ideal opportunity. I might get a description of someone. It could take me days.'

'Do it,' Tweed decided. 'It's the only lead we've got to this mysterious business.'

Paula reached for his doodle pad. He had added another name, put a loop round it. Mr Blue.

'And I can't link him up with anyone.'

Tweed put a hand on the top of his head. He began to stand up, then rested both hands on his desk for support. Paula reached out, grasped both hands in hers. He sank back slowly into his chair, sagged.

'You're feeling rotten, aren't you?' Paula said, coming round to his side of the desk.

'Headache's been building up… pounding like a drum. It's so damned hot in here…'

Monica swiftly produced a thermometer, handed it to Paula. She inserted it gently into Tweed's mouth, looked at her watch, felt his temple. When she took out the thermometer she showed it to Newman.

'He's got a fever,' she whispered.

'He certainly has. That's diabolically high,' Newman whispered back.

'We're taking you to the clinic,' Paula said, leaning over Tweed. 'You're not…'

'Not the clinic…' Tweed was having trouble speaking. 'You know I… hate all medical things… hospitals, nurses fussing. Get me home… That's an order… Then get Dr Abbott

Tweed made a supreme effort. Resting his hands on his chair, he hoisted himself upright, swayed as Paula and Newman each grabbed an arm. He slowly walked towards the door as they held on to him.