Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'Dressed like this? With nothing on? You can 'phone your friend from here…'

'The number is in my room. Never could remember numbers…'

He glanced in a wall mirror, combed his hair, and looked back at her as she sat up in bed, clutching the sheets to her bare breasts. Whelby had never understood this curious aspect of feminine modesty. He nodded reassuringly as he left.

Linda swore under her breath. What perfect timing. She was hardly in a position to follow him to see where he was going. Which might mean nothing. But there had been too many such nothings.

'Definite news at last,' Whelby told Vlacek inside Room 24. 'Lindsay is being flown in sometime tomorrow to Lydda Airport. The machine will be a Dakota. It could land after dark, but it will be tomorrow.'

'I need more than that…' The bony-faced man made an impatient gesture. 'Surely they gave some idea of the time of arrival, where the plane is coming from?'

'They didn't. I asked. Mulligan went vague. I didn't press. It would have looked suspicious. I showed you Lindsay's photograph, so identification should be no problem.'

'I would like to keep that photograph. May I have it?'

'No. It has to go back into the file I pinched it from in London. Overlooking a tiny detail like that can lead to disaster. When do I see you again? What method will you employ to s… s… solve the problem?'

'You won't see me again. The method is not your affair. I am leaving this hotel tonight. Are you enjoying yourself with Mrs Climber?'

A sharp look, assessing Whelby's reaction. A waste of time. The Englishman's bland, diffident manner gave away nothing as he wandered round the room, hands in dressing gown pockets.

'She worries me. She asks a lot of questions. She is clever but I get the sensation of being interrogated.. ' 'You met her how?'

'A chance meeting on the plane flying in from Cairo. She came over to me…'

'She approached you?'

Something in Vlacek's voice made Whelby turn and study the little man's expression. He didn't like what he saw. It had been a mistake to talk about the American woman.

'Why? What are you getting at?' Whelby demanded.

'Get dressed immediately. Go straight to the barracks.. Vlacek checked his watch. 'Stay till midnight and be sure people know you are there all the time. Say you are waiting for a 'phone call from Cairo. Anything. Establish your whereabouts.'

'I don't like this…'

'Will your fingerprints be present in Mrs Climber's room?'

'No. That's why I keep my hands in my pockets. It's become second nature…'

`Have you left anything in that room which belongs to you?'

Vlacek's cross-examination was remorseless, spoken in a monotone Whelby found unnerving. 'No,' he said abruptly.

'Don't go back there. Go straight to your own room, dress quickly and leave. You have ten minutes.

'I don't like this, Whelby repeated. 'What are you planning? The woman doesn't know a thing…'

'That is your assumption. Do as I say. From now on I am in full control. You are under orders.' Vlacek smiled unpleasantly. 'You always have been…'

Jock Carson parked the Vauxhall by the kerb, got out, locked the car and strolled towards the Hotel Sharon he could see in the distance as a glow of lights. A lot of lights for that hour. He saw the two empty police cars parked carefully in the shadows as he drew closer. He quickened his pace.

One of the night duty guards intercepted him as he was about to mount the steps to the terrace. There seemed to be unusual activity inside the place.

'You've heard about the murder, sir?'

'What murder?'

God, he thought, they've got Whelby.

'Some American woman staying here. Apparently she…'

Carson never did hear the end of his sentence. He bounded up the steps, pushed open the door and walked into the reception lobby. A blue-uniformed Palestine policeman stopped him.

'Excuse me, sir, could I have a word? You're staying here?'

Carson produced his special identity folder, handed it to the man and stared around as though searching for a clue. The policeman handed back the folder and looked uncomfortable.

'Sorry, sir. You're part 6f the investigation?' 'Where do I go?'

'Room 8, first floor..

Carson strode across to the reception counter, his stocky legs moving like pistons. Ignoring the clerk, he turned the hotel register through a hundred and eighty degrees and ran his finger down the list of names. Mrs L. Climber, Room 8. Mr P. Standish, Room 6. V. Vlacek, Room 24..

'Can I help you…?' the clerk began.

Carson ran up the stairs, paused at the top to check his watch. A quarter past midnight. Another uniformed policeman stood on guard outside Rooth 8: The same routine of showing his folder. Inside, the room was crowded with policemen. A middle-aged man in civilian clothes carrying a bag was on the verge of leaving. They were checking for fingerprints, taking photographs with a flash-bulb. Sergeant Mulligan came forward.

'Nasty business this…'

'May I see her?'

Not from choice. But a feeling of more than duty. Carson had sanctioned Linda Climber's mission to Palestine. He had had doubts but Linda had persuaded him. They had a quid pro quo arrangement with the Yanks. An American girl worked for British Intelligence; he had provided an English Wren to work for them. It had seemed like an original idea. At the time. He approached the bed, Mulligan at his heels.

'She was garrotted,' Mulligan warned. 'A piece of wire like they cut cheese with, so the doctor here says. Not a palatable sight…'

She was lying back on the pillow which was stained red. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, her expression one of terror. Stony-faced, Carson observed the bed-clothes were crumpled and pulled free of the mattress. All the signs that she had fought for her life.

The room was a bigger mess. Drawers pulled out, the contents spilled on the floor. A jewel case lay on the floor, the lid ripped from the hinges. Carson felt a twinge of nausea. When he spoke it was with unusual harshness.

'Room 6 is next door. Occupied by Standish. I suggest you check it for his fingerprints. Was she raped?' His mind was flitting all over the bloody place. 'No,' Mulligan replied. By the way, this is Dr Thomas..'

'Not raped,' Thomas said in a professional, dry voice, heavily Welsh. I have seen all this before, I just want to go home and get back to bed. 'But sexual intercourse had taken place very recently. This evening.'

'Definitely not rape?' Carson persisted. The point was more important than probably anyone else in the room realized.

'I've just said so,' Thomas told him. She was willing…'

Carson turned to Mulligan who was looking at him curiously. 'I'd like you to get on with checking

Room 6 for fingerprints, for comparison In here. It doesn't matter if Standish is in bed. Get him up.'

'He's not in bed. He's not even in the hotel. And my men are dusting his room for prints now. They used the manager's pass-key. Standish has been at the barracks for the past two hours. Waiting for a call from Cairo, I gather…'

'When did it happen?'

Carson avoided looking at the bed. He didn't even look at Thomas who was replying to his question. He disliked doctors.

'Until the post-mortem…'

'I know all that!' Carson was at his most dictatorial. 'I don't want the reservations. Give me what you'll qualify as an educated guess…'

'You always write other people's dialogue for them?' Carson had got under Thomas's skin. He continued not looking at him as the doctor went on. 'Some time between ten and midnight, closer to midnight as far as I can judge…'

'Which exonerates Standish of any suspicion,' Mulligan observed. 'The check on Room 6 is pure routine. I think Dr Thomas wants to get off – if you have no more questions…'