who was reaching for a sable coat flung over the back of a couch. Tweed thanked her for her time as she led the way to the front door, fumbling in her handbag, producing a ring of keys. Attempting to insert a key she swore again.
'All these damned keys. I never remember which is which.' As she inserted another key she spoke over her shoulder. 'I will just say goodbye…' She had opened the door and a limo was parked outside. A uniformed chauffeur was striding up and down the pavement. 'Joseph knows I am late…'
Her shoes click-clacked down the steps. She had left Tweed to close the front door. The chauffeur opened the rear door of the car, closed it, hurried to get behind the wheel. Paula noted the limo's plate number.
Tweed held the front door open. A tall woman in a fur coat, beak-nosed, probably over seventy but with refined features, had begun to ascend the steps in a stately manner. Tweed opened-the door wider.
'We've just been to see Mrs Mordaunt,' he explained. 'The lady you passed as you arrived and got into the limo.'
'I beg your pardon, young man.' Her manner was imperious. 'That was not Mrs Jeremy Mordaunt. A complete stranger.'
'Excuse me, are you sure?'
'Am I sure?' Her manner was indignant. 'I have been living here for over ten years. Don't you think I should recognize my neighbours by now?'
Having said which, she sailed into the building like a galleon about to open fire on the enemy.
CHAPTER 3
'Tweed is dead.'
The man, known as Mr Blue to a very few top officers in certain security circles, relaxed while he spoke to the aggressive man at the other end of the line. He sat at the back of the Mayfair bar. It had a long counter running along the opposite side. He was the only customer and the notice displayed on his table bothered him not at all. Use of mobile phones is forbidden.
Arriving in the exclusive establishment, he had asked the barman for the most expensive brandy he could see. He had tipped the barman generously so he knew no complaint would be made.
Earlier, after placing his glass on the table, he had walked into the cloakroom at the rear. Alongside the entrance the words FIRE EXI'I were prominently attached to the wall. Walking to the fire door he lifted the steel bar, pushed the door open, peered out. He was looking into a deserted mews. A few yards to his right it led into a busy street.
Satisfied that he had an escape route – a precaution he never neglected – he returned to the table, drank some brandy and made his call. His voice was prudently low. The voice at the other end challenged his statement rudely.
'How can you be certain he is dead?'
Mr Blue paused, lit a menthol cigarette. He took his time answering. He had realized long ago that people swallowed everything he said if they had to extract information bit by bit.
'Two bullets hit the target, I was told. Tweed slumped down. The car apparently ran into a wall. No one left the car while it was visible to the two men who accomplished their task. If that isn't enough for you then there is nothing more to say.'
He rang off before the other man could react in his normal blustering manner.
Stop looking at me, for God's sake, Lisa said to herself, willing the tramp to transfer his gaze anywhere else.
It seemed to work. The tramp looked at his whisky bottle, capped it. He shifted his position so he was sitting more upright. He burped, then looked up at the railings along the pavement.
'Girl with red 'air?'
'That's what I said,' snarled Eyebrows. 'Stop repeating what I've just said and answer the question, you louse.'
'Girl with red 'air,' the tramp said again. 'I've three wimin down 'ere. Two brunettes and a blonde. Don't think you're going to share. Come down 'ere and I'll smash your face in with this.'
Demonstrating his threat, he took hold of the bottle by the neck. Grim-faced, he hoisted the bottle and waved it slowly backwards and forwards. He stood up, continuing to wave his weapon.
'I'll go down there and slice his gizzard, Barton,' a sinister voice said from above.
Tanko, you'll shut your cakehole. He's just an old drunk. We're wasting time. Get movin' now…'
With a sigh of relief, Lisa heard the clumping of feet walking away further along the pavement. And now she knew their names. Barton, Panko. The second name sounded Balkan. She had noticed his strange accent when he'd spoken. The tramp pointed a finger at her.
'Stay where you are. I'll make sure the rubbish 'as gone.'
He was absent for longer than she'd expected. She wondered whether he'd gone off to find another suitable hidey-hole to doss down. Then he reappeared, staggering a little as he came down the steps.
'Rubbish 'as gone. Went up Gower Street. Best go other way. Sorry about the stink in there.'
'I'm so very grateful to you. Heaven knows what you've saved me from.'
She had emerged from the alcove, was standing up. She reached for her purse, uncertain whether he'd resent payment. He seemed to read her mind. From under his shabby coat he produced a wallet fat with banknotes, showed it to her.
'I'm all right. Works the dustcarts. Odd way to earn me livin' but the money's good. Off you go…'
She threw him a kiss, climbed the steps, checked to her left, saw no one and hurried in the other direction. In Tottenham Court Road she flagged down a cab.
'Reefers Wharf in the East End. You know it?'
'Don't often go down there. Course I know it. I did the knowledge
…'
Less than an hour later she paid the fare, then started walking. She thought it wiser if the cabbie didn't know where she was going. It was market day. The wide street was littered with stalls, men crying out their wares. Wearing a camel-hair coat over her trouser suit she became a target.
'Oi! Lady, we're givin' it away. It's April Fool's Day and I'm the. fool…'
She hurried on until she saw the sign above the ancient pub. The Hangman's Noose. She pushed open the door and several sellers from the market were seated, drinking beer. Behind the bar a man saw her, gestured for her to move to a quiet end of the bar.
'Herb,' she said, keeping her voice down, 'I need a room. I haven't slept properly for twenty-four hours. Thugs have chased me. I gave them the slip.'
'Room Three. It's at the back.' He reached under the bar, surreptitiously handed her a key. 'Up the stairs and straight down the corridor. You get more beautiful each day, but you look all in. Have you eaten?'
'No, I haven't.'
'Thought not. Would 'am and eggs do?'
'I'm salivating. But there's a problem. I've left my case in at Waterloo. I have the receipt…'
'Give me it. Bert will drive there in my car. Be back here in no time.' She handed him the receipt, which disappeared inside his apron pocket. 'Give me a buzz on the phone when you're ready for the food.'
'Thanks, Herb. I could do with a shower first.'
'Room Three has all mod. cons. Bert will be back with your case in a couple of hours.' He leaned forward, whispering. 'No messages from Rhinoceros, whoever he may be, wherever he may be.'
'He's abroad. A very powerful man. I've never seen him and I've no idea where he is. Or who he is.'
Newman and Paula followed Tweed into his office. Newman waved a warning finger at Monica, gestured towards Tweed who had taken off his coat and settled behind his desk.
'Don't talk to him. All the way back from Eaton Square he hasn't said a word.'
'I have to tell him something,' she protested. 'Professor Saafeld's report with copies are in that envelope on his desk. Plus his own report which I've typed.'
