Colin Forbes - By Stealth

`This is quite beastly,' Lee protested. There was a steely note in her voice. 'Do we have to go on?'

`We do,' Tweed continued relentlessly. 'Later, I am sure, the same woman finished off Lucie Delvaux with a cyanide injection after one hand had been amputated. Then a man called Joseph Mordaunt was murdered in the Parc d'Egmont. Again with a cyanide injection.'

Helen had been scribbling down the names with her fountain-pen on her pad. She counted.

`My God! You're talking about at least six murders,' she commented.

`Which is why I used the phrase multiple murderess. And I found it significant that two of them took place within a stone's throw of the Hilton – the cab driver in the Marolles, Mordaunt in the garden behind the hotel. Where both of you were staying.'

`Surely you are not suggesting that one of us-' Lee began.

`Not suggesting,' Tweed rapped back. 'I am accusing.' He turned his attention to Lee. 'The London Airport murder, that of the cab driver, and Mordaunt – all these suggest a very specially designed hypodermic was used. Something which outwardly was an everyday item. Lee, could I look at your cigarette holder?'

`Certainly not! The jewels fall out easily if carelessly handled.'

Paula felt her face with one hand, smoothing it over her complexion. A moment before Tweed had taken his left hand out of his pocket, rubbed the side of his nose with a finger, then shoved his hand back inside the pocket. The signal he had arranged with Paula,

`I need something to freshen myself up,' she said. 'If either of you could give me some Guerlain Samsara – my favourite perfume – I'm sure that would do the trick. Lee, I believe you use it. I caught a waft when you were playing cards in the Hilton.'

`I borrowed it from Helen.'

`I'll get you my bottle.'

Helen jumped up, left the room by another door close to the kitchen. She returned with the bottle and sat down again as she handed it to Paula. Thanking her, Paula applied a small quantity under her ears, then returned the bottle to Helen who placed it on a side table.

`That's what we were looking for,' Tweed told Helen. `You see, when two policemen opened the closed cab containing the driver's body there was a strong aroma of perfume. Yours. Guerlain Samsara.'

`Very clever, Mr Tweed.'

As she spoke, Helen placed the cap on her pen, an action Tweed had seen before. But this time she then turned the cap, screwing it on tight. With her palm she pressed the end and a needle shot out. With her left hand she grabbed Paula's wrist.

`Anyone who moves towards me kills her,' she said in a cold voice, her grey eyes blank, devoid of any human emotion.

Paula whipped over her other hand, grasped Helen's hand holding the hypodermic. A tigerish struggle to the death began. Helen stood up and Paula jerked herself upright with her opponent. The side table went over, the bottle smashed on the floor. The two women were facing each other, fighting savagely, their bodies moving like two manic wrestlers.

Newman tried to intervene but the hypodermic was flailing about unpredictably. Paula was surprised by Helen's lithe strength. She hung on to the wrist, forcing it away from herself. Helen aimed a kick at Paula's right leg, but only grazed her. Steadily Helen forced down the needle nearer to Paula's body. Another side table went flying. The needle came closer still to Paula. Then Paula used her free hand to grasp Helen by the throat in a strangler's grip. She dug her nails into Helen's neck.

Helen made a supreme effort to thrust the needle into her antagonist. Paula diverted the thrust. The needle sank deep into Helen's chest and – involuntarily – Paula pressed the plunger. Helen's whole body stiffened. She stopped struggling, sagged over the back of the couch, lay quite still.

Tweed glanced at Burgoyne who now stood by, staring at the corpse.

`Cyanosis, Brigadier. You recognize the symptoms?'

`Helen! Of all people! I can't believe it.' Willie went to a double-doored wall cupboard, opened the left-hand panel. 'I need a pick-me-up. This is just too awful…'

He poured himself a glass of Cyprus sherry, perched the bottle back on the shelf, leaving the door half open as he stumbled back to a chair, sat heavily in it. He drank half the glass, looked round in dazed fashion.

`Sorry. Anyone else need a drink?'

Heads were shaken as Paula walked with stiff legs to a different couch. As she sat down Newman joined her, put his arm round her tense body. Her breasts were heaving with the effort.

`No,' Burgoyne said, seating himself again in the carver in the corner, 'I'm not familiar with the symptoms. At least I wasn't until now.'

Already Helen's lips were a bluish tinge and the same colour was spreading to her stiffened face. Willie flapped a hand.

`Can't just leave her like that. I'll move her…'

`Don't!'

It was Tweed's order. He still stood with hands inside his trench-coat pockets. A half-minute earlier he had run close to Paula, but, like the others, couldn't find a way to disentangle the flurry of arms which had waved about.

`Nothing must be touched until the police are called – but that can wait for a few minutes longer. Brigadier, ever heard of someone called Vulcan?' Tweed asked.

`I believe I have. In Hong Kong.'

`Ah, the Far East,' Tweed recalled. 'Where long ago you went missing for four months behind the Chinese lines in Korea. What did Mao's lot do when they captured you?'

`I say, hold on there!' Willie protested. 'We've just had a frightful tragedy. The Brig. doesn't like those days being recalled. Show some sensitivity.'

`Mao's crowd didn't do anything to me.' Burgoyne gazed straight at Tweed. 'Because I was never captured. Went to ground until I could get away. You seem to know a devil of a lot.'

Lee had collapsed back into her chair. Her teeth chattered. Tweed sensed she was on the verge of hysteria. She sat playing with her cigarette holder.

`They say it's rained non-stop while we were away. All the rivers are swollen.'

It was the sort of remark people sometimes make when they are excessively upset. She suddenly burst into tears and Paula hurried over, kneeling beside her. Tweed waited until she had quietened down, then swung round to look down at Willie.

`You have heard of Vulcan?'

`One of the old Roman or Greek gods. Made thunderbolts for Jove

…'

`And you made them for Dr Wand.'

`Sorry. Not with you.'

`Willie, remember that chat we had in the Sambri bar at the Four Seasons? The topic of Brigadier Burgoyne came up. I listened while you told me that what he doesn't love is the present state of England. You went on about the welfare state, about the young wanting everything handed to them on a plate. A good dose of iron government is what is needed – the implication being Communist discipline…'

`Tommy-rot!' Burgoyne blazed.

`Let me finish. Willie remembered now and again to say these were your views. But he'd had a lot to drink and really let his tongue run away. It sounded to me that Willie was expressing his own attitudes – camouflaging them as the Brigadier's. But, Willie, you were just a bit to vehement in expressing those views – which are your own. Because you are Vulcan.'

`I'm confused. Need another drop of the good stuff…'

He stood up, walked unsteadily towards the two-door cupboard. Reaching inside, he unlooped the Heckler and Koch sub-machine-gun concealed inside the left-hand door, turned round, suddenly alert, and aimed it point-blank at Paula.

`First person who moves and she gets the whole mag.'

Everyone froze. Especially Tweed. The stock of the sub-machine-gun was collapsed but the muzzle stayed aimed at Paula. The Heckler and Koch: its performance rattled through Tweed's mind.