Colin Forbes - By Stealth

Benoit took them all, leaving behind Leclerc, into a small office further along the corridor leading to the morgue. Two uniformed men stood up. Benoit made introductions, using the men's first names, Armand and Marc, and told them to answer Tweed's questions.

`Have you had time,' Tweed asked, addressing Armand, who seemed to be the senior, 'to contact the cab company, to check the mileage on the clock?'

`Yes, sir. It was my first thought. Most cabbies spend their time doing local jobs – to one of the stations, to a restaurant or hotel. Short distances. This cab had been driven a long distance.'

`Could it have travelled to the Liege area and back?'

Armand thought for a moment. 'Yes, sir, it could. The gas tank was almost empty – but I'm going by the company records and the clock mileage.'

Tweed looked at Benoit. 'To me it seems conclusive. It was this cab which the murderer used to kill Andover. And there was a bullet-hole, you said, in the rear window which Paula fired through.'

`We found that bullet, sir,' Armand informed him. 'It was embedded in the rear of the front passenger seat. And it was within millimetres of penetrating the seat. If only it had struck the back of the driver's seat it might have got him…'

`Her,' the younger man, Marc, corrected.

`Why do you think it was a woman?' Tweed enquired.

`All the vehicle's windows were closed when we found it. And, incidentally, there are traces in the boot suggesting the body spent some time in there.'

`So why would it be moved?' Tweed pressed.

`We think we know,' Armand intervened. 'While it was being driven – to Liege, you suggested – the body would have to be concealed. But when the killer left the Mercedes in the Marolles some yobbo could quite easily have jemmied the boot open, hoping to find something worth taking. The body was jammed down inside the rear of the car. It was dark. So unless the door was opened it would appear empty.'

`And why do you think it was a woman?' Tweed persisted, turning to Marc.

`As I told Chief Inspector Benoit when he came to see us just before you visited the morgue, I am a non-smoker. I have an acute sense of smell. When I opened the rear door of the cab I immediately caught the aroma of a perfume – Guerlain Samsara.'

`And just how were you able to identify that particular perfume?' Tweed asked sceptically.

He was standing very erect, both hands shoved inside his coat pockets, staring straight at Marc. He suddenly realized his stance was exactly the same he'd adopted when interrogating a suspect at the Yard. Old habits died hard.

`Because,' Marc explained, 'I'd had a win at the casino in Ostend. I used some of my money to buy my girl friend a bottle of Guerlain Samsara. I should know that perfume now.'

`The cab driver could have picked up a previous passenger, a woman, before he encountered the murderer,' Tweed probed.

`I think not, sir. Samsara is a subtle perfume – expensive. Any woman passenger earlier would have opened the door to get out. She swings her legs out first – I have often observed this – and then she climbs out of the cab. With the door open even that amount of time the aroma would have gone.'

`I'm convinced. Thank you, Marc. In due course you will undoubtedly be promoted. You use your eyes as well as your nose.' He turned to Benoit. 'I think that is all. Except for that matter about the priority for Dr Leclerc.'

`Which I will tell him as soon as I have seen you off the premises. You would like an unmarked police car to take you to the Hilton?'

`I can drive them there,' Newman said.

Tweed shook hands with Benoit. It was the custom in Belgium: when you met, when you departed, and on any other occasion when the opportunity presented itself.

`Now all we need,' Newman said when the bags had been transferred to his boot, 'is a woman who uses Guerlain Samsara.'

The first people Tweed noticed on entering the Hilton were Burgoyne, Lee Holmes, Fanshawe, and Helen Claybourne playing a game of cards. He wondered how Lee had travelled to Brussels.

`We want three executive rooms for two days,' he told the girl receptionist behind the counter. 'I believe there is a special reservation room for those on the twentieth floor.'

`No longer, sir. We do have the rooms but you register here. Chief Inspector Benoit phoned us.'

She asked for a credit card but Tweed paid in cash for the three rooms in advance: you can track a man's movements by tracing credit-card transactions, if you know how. Tweed, still clutching the executive case containing Delvaux's new radar system, then asked for a safety-deposit box.

The girl guided him round a corner at the end of the reception counter, pressed a button inside, let him into a glass cubicle. He closed the outer door, she opened the inner door and led him to the deposit room.

`For that case you will need our largest box…'

Attaching the key to his ring, Tweed thanked her, went outside where Paula and Newman were waiting. Paula came close, whispered.

`You've seen who is in the lounge area?'

`Yes. I think we should make their acquaintance later. What about dinner?'

`I'm beyond it. Ham sandwiches and coffee is all I can cope with.'

`Me too,' said Newman.

`Agreed. We're all on the twentieth floor. We'll meet by the lift up there. When, Paula?'

`I'm going to treat myself to a five-minute shower. A bath is too much effort…' They walked inside one of the elevators, the doors closed, the ascent began. 'I will be ready in ten minutes,' Paula decided. 'Time me…'

Tweed found he had Room 2009, a spacious room the size of a suite. After a swift wash and change of underclothes, he switched off the lights, peered out behind the closed curtains. The view was panoramic – the enormous green dome surmounting the Palace of Justice seemed near enough to reach out and touch. A building larger than St Peter's in Rome. And Marolles is down there, he was thinking – where the murdered cab driver had been found. So close to the Hilton.

In his suite at the Bellevue Palace Dr Wand was working late. When the phone rang the chauffeur answered, handed him the instrument.

`Someone called Vulcan wishes to speak to you.'

`Yes,' Wand opened the conversation. 'You recognize my voice. What is it, please?'

Wand always kept his communications with Vulcan short. It was so important to keep his caller's identity secret.

`I thought you should know,' the voice said in English, `that the Hilton has three new visitors. Your good friend Tweed, Paula Grey, and Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent. Just in case you wished to have cocktails with them sometime.'

`Thank you so much for your call. I will think about it.'

Wand put down the phone. Vulcan had phrased the information carefully. Any switchboard operator listening in would not understand the implications.

Wand pursed his lips and did not smile. Watching him furtively, the chauffeur knew he was disturbed. And he was right.

Wand sat thinking, tapping a slow tattoo with his gold pencil. Tweed first in Liege and now in Brussels. He is coming too close, he thought. He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory, a Brussels number. A woman with a working-class voice answered and Wand asked to speak to Dr Hyde.

`Hyde speaking. Who is this?' The voice was hoarse, and spoke in English. 'I said who is this?' Hyde repeated.

`You know who I am, my friend,' Wand replied. 'I think it might be wise if you moved to a hotel in Liege. It is possible you could have a patient requiring treatment. Either in Belgium or Germany. In the near future. Goodnight..

Handing the receiver to the chauffeur, Wand took out his slim notebook. He turned to the last page where he had noted down in pencil – easy to erase – twenty-five names. They comprised the elite of Western Europe – and there were few politicians. These were the men – and women – Wand feared might detect the plan. Operation Long Reach.