Colin Forbes - By Stealth

He mingled with a party of late-nighters just returning, smelt whiffs of alcohol, heard their none too sober conversation. He walked straight up to the reception and spoke to the man behind the counter.

`I've been driving non-stop for hours. I want to get a shower and clean up before I drive on to Ostend. I need a single room -which I'll pay for-for the night. Even though I'll only be there an hour…'

Paying in cash, he went to the elevator, stepped out at the right floor, used the blasted computer card – which he loathed – to open the door. Then he moved swiftly, stripping down, stepping into the shower, and towelling himself five minutes later.

He used his electric razor to remove the stubble from his face, put on the rest of his clothes. He checked his appearance in a long mirror. Now he looked quite different – even respectable.

Returning to the lobby, he ordered sandwiches and coffee. Eating everything, he drank the last drop of coffee, paying for the meal before he walked out again and returned to his parked car.

When he got behind the wheel the first thing he did was to feel under his seat. The Armalite rifle was still there. Using a copy of the Herald Tribune he had picked up in the Hilton, he spread sheets out over the weapon, further concealing it.

He then settled down to rest, but not to fall asleep: Marler could survive for forty-eight hours without one wink of real sleep. When morning came he was glad he'd taken the precautions of making himself look like a respectable tourist. Very glad indeed.

It was the middle of the night and Dr Wand was fast asleep when the phone rang. He woke instantly, switched on the bedside lamp, put on his pince-nez, glanced at his clock, and guessed who was calling. He picked up the receiver.

As he had expected it was long distance – from Hong Kong. The operator informed him Moonglow Trading amp; Mercantile were on the line. So it would be in the morning in Hong Kong, and urgent for them to call him at this hour. He identified himself and listened to the caller who spoke in English.

`Philip Cardon, did you say? Could you please repeat?' he asked after a short conversation which appeared to concern a business transaction.

`I see,' he continued after listening to a few more words. 'Here are my instructions. Kindly terminate Mr Cardon's contract. Yes, terminate. He is totally redundant…'

Having ordered the murder of another human being, Wand took off his pince-nez, placed them carefully on the table, switched off the light, and fell fast asleep.

Tweed paced slowly round his room as he spoke. Newman and Paula had both come to see him early in the morning after Helen Claybourne had disappeared inside an elevator. They had given Tweed a resume of their conversations with Helen and Willie. In return, Tweed had tersely reported his experience with Lee Holmes.

`It appears we still don't know the truth,' Tweed began, `but we do know one of those women is a liar.'

`You mean about the Guerlain Samsara,' Newman suggested.

`Exactly. Lee told me Helen had a bottle and had let Lee try some of the perfume. Helen said the exact opposite. That is sinister.'

`It means then,' Paula said grimly, 'that one of the two of them could be a murderess twice in one evening?'

`Exactly,' Tweed repeated. The victims being Andover and the cab driver found in Marolles. Presumably – if it was one of them – she injected the cabbie with cyanide to use his cab to drive to Liege, then brought it back here. It could be significant that it was abandoned a few minutes' walk from this hotel. Not conclusive – but why should one of them lie about the perfume?'

`And Willie and Burgoyne?' Newman asked.

`They could be liars too. Willie tells Paula it was his idea that the four of them came together to Brussels. Helen confirms this arrangement with Bob while talking in the bar. On the other hand Lee told me quite clearly it was Burgoyne's idea. So we don't know about that either.'

`Helen hinted to me,' Newman recalled, 'that Burgoyne is mixed up in arms deals. Sounds plausible – with his military background. And he seems to be loaded with money. It must come from somewhere.'

`I think the important thing is to concentrate on the two women,' Paula emphasized. 'You two had them on your own, so what impression did they make?' She looked at Tweed. 'I suppose Lee played the coquette with you madly?'

`As a matter of fact, she didn't. I was surprised – she isn't the dizzy blonde I'd imagined. She talked a lot of horse sense and has a native shrewdness. Lee can look after herself.'

`And Helen?' Paula asked Newman.

`She was like I expected her to be. A mature woman with her feet planted firmly on the ground.'

`You know,' Paula said, 'when we were all gathered round the poker game in the lounge I had the same impression I had when we visited them in the New Forest. That we were witnessing an elaborate charade put on for our benefit.'

`You mean that the four of them are in it together?' Tweed queried.

`Maybe. I'm not sure yet,' she said, frowning with concentration. 'But at least one of them isn't what he or she seems. I'm damned sure of that. And it's creepy – this idea that either Helen or Lee could be a three-time murderess. Hilary Vane, the cab driver in Marolles, and Andover.'

`You caught a glimpse of the driver who mowed down poor Andover,' Tweed reminded her. 'You seemed sure it was a woman wearing a crash helmet and goggles. Surely that cancels out Lee – with her long mane of blonde hair.'

`Which just shows how little men know about women. She could have worn her hair piled up on top of her head under the helmet. That doesn't cancel out Lee.'

`We've talked enough for one night,' Tweed decided. 'I suggest you all get off to bed now…'

It was the middle of the night when the phone woke Tweed. Earlier, on arrival in his room at the Hilton, he had made a brief call to Monica in London, giving her his hotel and room number. He switched on the light, picked up the phone, and it was Monica. She phrased her message carefully.

`Sorry to disturb you, but I've had a call from Cardon, our Far Eastern representative. From Bangkok. He's had a three-day holiday in Chengmai. He's flying home later today via the Persian Gulf. He'll be calling me before he boards his flight to give me his ETA.'

Tweed's blood ran cold. Chengmai. The Thai centre of drug distribution from the notorious Golden Triangle area. What on earth had drugs to do with this crisis? Nothing at all, he'd have thought.

Tweed's sixth sense was working overtime. He had the most awful foreboding. All this flashed through his mind in seconds while Monica waited for him to reply. He took an instant decision.

`He's travelling under his own credentials?' he asked. `I gather so.'

`Monica, when he calls you again give him this order. Stress in the strongest terms it is an order. He is to fly straight back to Hong Kong – using his other credentials. He is then to take the Pacific route, repeat, the Pacific route, to San Francisco, cross the States, catch Concorde to London.'

`I'll tell him. Rely on me. Good-night – or rather, good morning…'

If Tweed had been asked, he couldn't have explained why he had taken this decision. But he had learnt over the years his sixth sense never let him down – that it could be fatal to ignore it.

Sitting up in bed against a propped pillow, he reached for his copy of Anthony Trollope's Barchester Towers. He didn't go to sleep again. The shadowy pattern formed in his mind of what was going on had been shattered. Drugs? On a huge scale? That meant vast sums of money. A glimmer of an idea twitched at the back of his mind, then faded.

It was still dark when he got up, had a leisurely bath, dried himself, got dressed slowly. Then he watched dawn break over the muddled mess of a city which was Brussels.