'She's not for you. Get the hell out of here.'
The Afghan scuttled downstairs, close behind Newman.
Newman had sat down as Marler stood up. The Afghan was almost at their table. His right hand had slipped under his leather jacket. Newman had a glimpse of a vicious curved blade. Marler raised the heavy bottle with one hand, whipped off the turban with the other. The bottle hit the back of the Afghan's head with such force it broke in two. The Afghan sank to the floor, lay still.
'Tweed will be back by eleven,' Marler whispered to Eddie. 'Midnight at the latest. He's not coming to this cesspit.'
'You know Monk's Alley – off Covent Garden and King Street?'
'Yes.'
'Meet him inside the alley at midnight. You can come with him, but stay back.'
'Time we all went,' Marler warned.
'I'm gone,' said Eddie and he was out of Belles.
3
Tweed and Paula started out on their walk to Margesson's villa by keeping to the path. Since it was paved with pebbles their footsteps made a lot of noise. Hoping to catch their objective by surprise, Tweed moved to his •right, on to the grass, followed by Paula. It was not much of an improvement. The heavy frost was so hard their feet crunched the crystals.
'It's like Siberia up here,' Paula complained. 'Who would want to live here?'
'The people who do. What did you think of Mrs Gobble?'
'Far more going on inside her head than Buchanan realized. My guess is she didn't like him so she acted the simpleton. Cunning too – with her concealed telescope. Probably she knows even more than she told us.'
'Stop talking.'
They were over halfway round the large lake, approaching Palfry's 'tub', as Mrs Gobble had nicknamed it. An apt word, Paula thought. She looked to her left. The surface of the lake was very still and black, as if filled with tar. The silence was getting on her nerves, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps.
They came to a road and walked slowly past Palfry's house. No lights anywhere. Small windows on both floors and no sign of an entrance. The front door must be round the back. She looked at Margesson's dwelling and gasped as she saw it more clearly. All the brickwork and even the pillars flanking the front door were painted a light green.
'That's ridiculous,' she protested. 'A Georgian house painted green.'
'We'll find he's eccentric.' Tweed predicted, reaching for the bell-pull. 'And this thing is more suitable for an old cottage.'
There was a whirring sound and the heavy wooden door swung inward. Electrically operated. A massive figure stood in the doorway. At least six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and large hands. His chin was concealed behind a long black beard, matching the colour of the thick thatch on his big head. His forehead was wide and narrow, his brown eyes half hidden under heavy lids above a Roman nose and thick sensuous lips.
The strangest aspect was the long white robe he wore, which almost reached his ankles. The white collar stretched round his bull-like neck. His voice was soft, persuasive. Paula took an instant dislike to it.
'How may I serve you?' the huge figure enquired.
'I am Tweed, Deputy Director of the SIS.' He held open his identity folder. 'This is my personal assistant, Paula Grey. We are here to investigate the disappearance of Mrs Warner. She has been gone three weeks.'
'Please enter my humble home. I suggest we confer at the round table.'
They walked into a vast sitting-room as the door automatically closed behind them. Paula was not expecting this. The room was two storeys high with an arched ceiling. It reminded her of houses in the States which had similar living quarters called a cathedral room. The walls were painted white and decorated with framed English landscapes.
'Some wine?' Margesson suggested. 'A libation?'
They both refused as they sat on hard cushionless chairs with high backs. Paula tried to wriggle herself into a better position as their host arranged his robe and sat facing her. His peculiar eyes gazed straight at her as he spoke.
'There is no comfort in this dwelling. That is deliberate. We live in a world here where there is only softness, so we have a society which has collapsed. Into chaos.'
'Chaos?' Tweed queried sharply.
'There is no discipline, no morality, only the indulgence of pleasures, many of a dubious nature. Parents make no effort to control their offspring, so we breed a fresh generation which, if not controlled, will plunge us deeper into the pit of degradation.'
'Assuming that what you say is correct,' Tweed said agreeably, 'then what – if anything – could be done to reverse the trend?'
Paula, taken aback, glanced at him. Then she realized Tweed was subtly leading on their host. She assumed a solemn expression to match Tweed's.
'The present society must be wrenched free from its moorings, shaken to the core by the introduction of the most severe measures. For example, adultery is now regarded almost as a normal behaviour. If a woman is taken in adultery she has to be subjected to the most draconian punishment.'
'I should have asked earlier,' Tweed interjected. 'You are Mr Margesson?'
'Olaf Margesson at your service, sir.'
'Olaf? That isn't very English.'
'My ancestors long ago came from Finland.'
'Really?' Tweed paused. 'Yet your skin, if I may remark on it, has a brownish tinge. Not a colour anyone would inherit from Finland.'
Watching their host closely, Paula saw the eyes narrow even more, so they almost disappeared beneath the lids. She felt sure she had caught a flash -of fury in those disturbing eyes.
'You mentioned a draconian punishment for women,' she challenged him. 'What about men caught in adultery?'
'They would also receive a punishment to mark them out for the foul things they are. That is why I speak of discipline, of control. When a woman takes a man in marriage she must respect him in every way. As he must her. Can you argue against that?'
'Theoretically, no,' Tweed replied. 'I agree with the general idea, but not everyone is strong enough to resist temptation when it offers itself. You must…'
' Temptation!' Margesson's voice became a roar of fury, he raised both arms high, hands open like huge claws. His loose sleeves slipped down, exposing massive muscular arms. 'That is what it is all about,' he thundered. 'The refusal to give in to the lusts of the flesh, discipline. Self-discipline is the foundation of a strong society which will endure. The present one will not. It will drown in its own sea of naked self-indulgence. Not all America's atom bombs and aircraft carriers will protect it – or the West.'
'You express yourself with vigour,' remarked Tweed as he stood up to leave. 'I agree with a small amount of your view – but disagree with most of it. Now we must go.'
'Think deeply of all I have said in the darkness of the night, I beg of you.'
Margesson, standing, towered over Paula, who had also stood up. His whole personality had undergone a remarkable change. As he spoke these words to them both hands were stretched out, pleading.
Tweed made no reply as he walked towards the door with Paula by his side. With giant strides Margesson preceded them, pressed a button in the wall and the door swung open. Icy air flooded in. Once outside on the step Tweed turned, his manner polite.
'Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Margesson. Everyone has a right to his own views, providing they don't force others to adopt them.'
Margesson bowed low, one hand plucking at his dark beard. It was a mannerism Paula had observed
