The oldest trick in the world but it worked. As Skinny looked back Marler used the barrel of the Colt again, but this time he aimed it at the side of Skinny's head. It was a businesslike blow and threw Skinny hurtling down the steps after Barton. He remained still at the bottom. Marler checked the street. Empty. Skateboard had long since vanished round a corner. Marler went down the steps.
He checked Skinny's pulse, which was beating steadily, but he was unconscious. Lifting him out of the way, Marler dumped him in a far corner, returned to Barton, still moaning. He bent down, aimed the Colt.
'What were you going to do to the red-haired lady?'
'Rough her up…'
'Open your mouth or I'll blow your head off.'
Terrified, Barton flopped open his mouth as blood dripped from his jaw. Marler shoved the muzzle of the Colt inside the open mouth. Barton's eyes nearly popped out.
'Again,' said Marler, his tone steely. 'What were you going to do with her? Three seconds and I'll pull the trigger.'
He removed the muzzle from the big man's mouth so he could speak. It took him half a minute to get the words out and then they were a mumble.
'We was goin' to kill her.'
'Right. Who paid you to do it?'
'For Gawd's sake. Mister… don't know. One like us… wore dark glasses. Paid cash…'
Marler was convinced Barton didn't know. In any case, the man who had instructed him, who had paid the cash, would be only part of a chain, extending back who knew where. He looked carefully at Barton. The big man was lying motionless, his eyes half closed, a real mess. And Skinny was out for die count.
Climbing back up the steps, he walked a short distance away, took out his mobile, called Buchanan's private line. The Superintendent answered at once.
'Yes?'
'Marler here.' He had already noted the street name, the number of the house above the area. He gave them to Buchanan. 'In the area at that address you'll find two criminals, knocked about a bit, waiting for your collection by a patrol car…'
'Hang on.'
Marler knew Buchanan was already dispatching the patrol car. He spoke quickly so he could get away before the police arrived.
'The big fellow is Barton, if that's his real name. The other one has the nickname Skinny. Barton admitted they tried to kill a certain girl, muffed it…'
'Knocked about a bit, you said. Your work?'
'Have to go now. Run out of coins…'
He hurried back to the hotel, went up to his room, locked the door. About five minutes later he heard the sound of a police siren. Taking out his mobile, he called Newman at Park Crescent, explained what had happened.
'I can't keep out of trouble, can I? Now, how is Tweed?'
'Bearing up, I gather. Not the easiest patient in the world.'
'Good for him. And Lisa?'
'Still at the clinic. The consultant doesn't seem worried, but like Tweed it could be a slow recovery.'
'OK. By the way, when I spoke to Buchanan I didn't let slip we even knew Lisa, didn't mention her name.'
'That's the way Tweed would want it, I'm sure. Go out and find some more thugs you can chat to…'
'I'm sorry I'm late relieving Monica,' Paula said as she sat down by Tweed's bedside. 'How are you feeling?'
'Better.' Tweed was perched up against a pillow. 'I think the first antibiotic Master gave me is doing the trick. I won't need the second one.'
'Yes, you will. Master says that's the vital one. Behave yourself.'
'You've been up to something. You're an hour late. You're never late except for a very good reason. Tell me,' Tweed snapped.
'All right. I thought you'd get it out of me. Since Monica took over this afternoon I've been trawling London – in the hope I'd see something – or someone – which would tell us what is going on. Partly walking, partly moving from area to area by taxi. I may have struck gold this evening,' Paula ruminated.
'Get to the point.'
'A taxi dropped me near Santorini's, that expensive restaurant with a platform projecting over the river. I saw the Brig. – Lord Barford – and his disgusting son, Aubrey. The one I had lunch with. They had just got out of a taxi and Aubrey was carrying a large suitcase plastered with labels. The sort of thing you collect travelling abroad…'
'I know,' Tweed said impatiently.
'I got the distinct impression they'd just got back from Heathrow – because of the suitcase. Which one made the trip to somewhere I don't know – Aubrey could have been carrying his father's suitcase. They went into Santorini's.'
'And?'
'I had a mad idea,' Paula informed him. 'I followed them in a few minutes later. They'd be in the restaurant by then. I looked at the hat-check girl's cubbyhole and saw the Brig.'s suitcase with the labels showing. Went up to her and told her Mr Swanton had sent me because he owed them ten pounds on his dinner bill. Held out my hand, full of ten pound coins, reached over the counter, pretended to drop them by mistake on her floor. She bent down to scoop them up and I took a pic of the suitcase with my non-flash camera, then took a taxi back to Park Crescent where they developed the print.'
'Which you've got with you.'
'Yes. I really think this can wait…'
'Give.'
She handed over the print, took a magnifying glass out of her shoulder bag, handed that to Tweed. He studied the print.
'Hotels in Brussels, Berlin, Paris and Stockholm. Those were the places Aubrey, while drunk in Martino's, told you his father visited.'
'Exactly.'
'But it looks as though one label has been removed.'
'It has,' Paula agreed. 'And it must have been recently. Those labels stick like the devil if they're left for a while.'
'The missing label must show where he has flown back from. Today. Why the secrecy?'
'I wondered that.' She watched as he placed the print in the drawer of his bedside table. 'You haven't been working on your pad, I hope?'
'Added one name. Rhinoceros.'
M. Bleu had left France. Following the car with his target, Louis Lospin, at the wheel, he had been surprised when the car headed in a different direction, eventually arriving at the airport.
After parking his car in a crowded multi-storey, Lospin had, carrying his bag, checked in for a flight to Corsica. Bleu had shrugged, realizing Lospin was taking a holiday. Air travel did not appeal to him this time – the airport swarmed with security men. The President was due in on a flight. Bleu had left his motorcycle in the multi-storey, had taken a taxi to the Gare du Nord.
From there he caught an express to Amsterdam. He would have been very difficult to detect, let alone to follow. And he had not even considered waiting in Paris for Lospin to return. He could have become conspicuous, been intercepted by French security.
Arriving in Amsterdam, he took a taxi to a hotel near Schiphol Airport. Registering under one of the several names in his collection of different passports, he went up to his room, phoned the airport for flights to Britain the following day. To his surprise he found he could catch an early evening flight to Heathrow if he left the hotel immediately. He did so.