to London. It was cold as he took out the key to open the shabby front door. It creaked resentfully as he pushed it open, went straight in, Smith amp; Wesson in his right hand. He had heard a faint sound of movement. There was no security in the cottage – it would have made the place look suspicious – and the sound he'd heard worried him.
He waited just inside the door, half hidden behind it, took out a powerful torch, listened again. There was the furtive sound again. Revolver in one hand, torch in the other, he switched it on. Startled eyes stared back at him. The fox took off, leapt through a broken window, was gone. He let out the breath he'd been holding.
He moved quickly. With the briefcase gripped under his strong arm, he hauled out the only solid chair from an old wooden table. Placing it in the middle of the room, he used the torch for illumination as he stood on the chair. Reaching up between the ancient cross-beams supporting the roof, he pushed at a panel in the wooden ceiling. He kept his eyes closed as dust floated down. Pushing the panel to one side, his hands were covered in spiders' webs. Feeling to his right, he lifted an ancient trunk containing old clothes, slid the briefcase under it, lowered the trunk, closed the panel, stepped down on to the floor. Before he opened his eyes he took out a handkerchief, wiped away a mess of dust and cobwebs.
He carefully replaced the chair in exactly the same place. Opening the creaking door to the outside, he stood listening. It had started to drizzle. He swore to himself, shrugged, went out and locked the door with the rusty key.
Fortunately he was wearing his rainproof jacket with a hood, which he pulled over his head. Tolhaven next – and the mystery of Harber's Yard.
Inside Tweed's flat Paula had completed a second search for incriminating objects. Nothing. Meanwhile, Tweed had taken a long shower, dried and shaved, then dressed. He was beginning to feel more normal. He walked into the bedroom to find the light on and Paula peering down into the street.
'Another visitor,' she informed him. 'In a limo. It's Professor Saafeld, of all people. I'll go down, let him in…'
Tweed was walking up and down to check the stability of his movements when two pairs of feet clattered up the stairs. He was puzzled. Professor Saafeld, his friend, was the most eminent pathologist in Britain, called in by the police on major cases.
With bushy white hair the gnome-like professor, his eyes so alert even at this early hour, smiled as he came in carrying a bag, followed by Paula.
'On the bed,' he ordered Tweed. 'Stretch out.'
'What the hell for?' demanded Tweed.
'Do as you're told. Paula has given me a brief account of your adventures last night. You were drugged, I gather – in a margarita. Clever. That drink conceals most drugs. I'm giving you a blood test. Then I can analyse what was fed into you.'
He was extracting a large hypodermic needle as he spoke. Paula grabbed a towel from the bathroom, spread it on the bed so Tweed needn't take off his shoes. His sleeve rolled up, with a sigh Tweed allowed himself to be subjected to what he regarded as an unnecessary bother. Saafeld extracted his blood sample in no time, applied a sticking plaster, placed the needle in a white metal sleeve.
'Should be able to report to you what it was before the end of the day,' he explained in his rapid way of speaking. 'I'm on my way to a particularly hideous murder, called in by your friend Commander Roy Buchanan.'
'Who was murdered?' asked Tweed.
'A Miss Viola Vander-Browne, at her flat in Covent Garden. Sounds like a psycho. All her limbs have been chopped off, and her head. The truly hideous aspect is the killer finished up by arranging the severed limbs, and the head, in roughly the way she was when alive. On her bed. Must fly – before some clod of a policeman messes up a vital clue. You have a day in bed,' he called out from the door as he left.
Paula followed him out to make sure the front door was secured behind him, then darted back upstairs, her expression serious.
Tweed was standing perfectly erect in front of a mirror while he adjusted his tie. He swung round and smiled at her. Then he paced back and forth rapidly, smiled again, concealing his sense of shock.
'You're feeling better?' Paula enquired anxiously.
'Thought I'd just demonstrated that. So Saafeld is haring off to the murder scene. Roy called him,' – referring to his old friend Commander Roy Buchanan.
'Was Viola Vander-Browne the woman you had dinner with at Mungano's last night?' she said nervously.
'Don't look so worried. I didn't murder her… But I shall always curse myself for not seeing her safely to her apartment.'
He opened the wardrobe, fished out from the top pocket of the coat he'd worn the previous evening the card Viola had tucked in. 'She lives – or lived – in Fox Street.'
'I know it. I used it one evening this winter to visit a girl friend of mine in Covent Garden. It's a short cut to Covent Garden across King Street – this side of King Street. I didn't like it at night. Rather narrow, cobbled, and very lonely. A weird atmosphere. I hurried to get through it. I've something rather ugly to tell you.. .'
She explained how she'd noticed the front door had been tampered with. How she had searched his room while he was unconscious – and what she'd found in a drawer before handing it over to Newman. She described the arrival of two black cars and men with long black coats., how Newman had dealt with them.
'Long black coats,' Tweed responded. 'Any caps? Yes, I see. And with armlets on their sleeves. I don't like the sound of the way things are going. We'll leave for the office.'
In his first-floor office with large windows looking towards Regent's Park, Tweed was settled behind his antique desk (a present from his staff) when the visitor arrived. Paula was seated at her desk in a corner. Monica, a middle-aged woman with her hair tucked up in a bun and his faithful secretary for years, sat behind her desk by the door working at her word-processor. Two other key members of his team were also present. Harry Butler, a Cockney, wearing an old windcheater and shabby slacks, sat crosslegged on the floor. His partner, Pete Nield, sat in a chair close to Paula's desk.
Partners, but their contrast in personality and dress were striking. Nield, in his late thirties, wore a smart suit with a well-pressed shirt and a smart tie. They had listened in silence while Tweed told them of recent events.
'You was set up,' Harry growled. 'Timing was all worked out by a planner. Chose the wrong man. We'll locate 'im -and when we do if I'm there he'll end up in 'ospital…'
He stopped talking as the phone rang, Monica answered, then looked at Tweed.
'You won't believe this but Commander Roy Buchanan is downstairs, requesting to see you urgently.'
'Wheel him up, then.'
They heard feet clumping quickly up the stairs. Paula stared in disbelief as Buchanan entered the room. Instead of his usual business suit, he was clad in full-dress uniform as Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Squad, a temporary appointment since he was normally Superintendent of the CID.
'Good morning, Roy,' Tweed greeted him amiably. 'Why the fancy dress?'
'I'm here in an official capacity,' Buchanan said grimly, his expression stern as he seated himself in front of Tweed's desk.
'Hello, Roy,' Paula called out cheerfully.
'Good morning, Miss Grey,' he replied, glancing at her briefly.
'Oh, it's Miss Grey now,' she said, her tone icy. 'Sorry if I forgot to stand up and salute.'
'Roy, what is all this?' Tweed asked placidly.
'I need to know where you were between the hours of eleven last night and three this morning.'
'No, we don't play it that way. Not after we've known each other for umpteen years,' Tweed replied, still placid. 'What is all this about? Relax for Heaven's sake.'
Tweed's persuasive attitude had an effect on even the strong-minded Buchanan. He grabbed his cap out of his lap, dropped it on the floor as though he disliked the damned thing. He took a deep breath.
'All right. There's been a horrific murder. A Miss Viola Vander-Browne. Saafeld estimates the time of death as roughly between eleven p.m. and one a.m. – probably closer to eleven. The poor woman has been cut to pieces. I had an anonymous tip-off on the phone early this morning that I should check where you were last night. Chief Inspector Hammer is in charge of the case. Back at the Yard he's nicknamed the Bulldozer. He was coming over but I stopped him, came myself. Sergeant Warden, my assistant, will be coming over tomorrow to take a statement from you. You know – knew – Miss Vander-Browne?'
