Colin Forbes - By Stealth

`Oh, Lord,' said Paula, standing at the entrance. 'My Flemish is non-existent and that's the language on the menu.'

`Nothing wrong with your French, is there? Wait till we get inside.'

The restaurant had panelled walls, a tiled floor, wooden chairs and tables covered with paper cloths patterned to look like linen. Already the place was a hive of activity as waitresses bustled to serve, their heels click-clacking on the tiled floor. Marler pulled out a chair for Paula at a window table. As he sat down she was studying the menu. Marler glanced outside. Across the street Fatman was still seated behind the wheel, puffing his cigar, and gazing straight ahead rather too fixedly.

`This is great,' said Paula. 'The menu is in French as well as Flemish. I'm fillets of sole and loads of chips.'

`Sounds good, me too.'

The waitress was already standing over them. Marler gave her the order in French and asked for a carafe of

Macon and some mineral water. The waitress stared at him.

`Pas de potage?'

Marler looked at Paula who shook her head. He looked up at the waitress, smiled, said, Won.' She looked amazed and hurried off to place their order.

`I'm ravenous,' Paula remarked, 'as I told you. But I've seen the soup at the next table. It's a plateful of solid liquid. A meal in itself.'

`I agree. Takes the edge off your appetite. But the Flemish work hard, eat well to stoke up. Macon is all right, I hope? The waitress was dizzy with impatience to push off and get on with it.'

`You know it's one of my favourite wines. And thanks for remembering the mineral water…'

Paula thought how strange the situation was. In Marler's company she was feeling as relaxed as she did when out with Newman. But across the street was that sinister fat man waiting for them to leave.

`Mr Audi could be a problem,' she mused after the waitress had served the wine and the mineral water. She also brought a basket of sliced pieces of a baguette. Paula took a slice and devoured the crusty bread. 'This is good too,' she commented.

`Forget Mr Audi,' Marler suggested. 'I've been in this town before and know the geography. I may deal with our friend before we leave. Now, concentrate on the meal..

Drinking her wine, Paula looked outside, fascinated by the Dutch-style architecture. Slim old buildings sheered up to the typical Dutch rounded triangular facade at the top. Five or six storeys high, some buildings had heavy wooden doors on the fifth floor – doors which had once opened to take deliveries hauled up from wagons in the street.

`Looks good to me,' she said as the food arrived. 'And no bones to fiddle with. Glory, look at the amount of beautiful chips.'

`Bet we get through the lot,' said Marler.

They said nothing more as they attacked the meal. More customers flooded in. Obviously locals, Marler thought from their appearance. And regulars, from the way they were greeted by the waitresses. The restaurant was a babble of conversation mingling with the rattle of cutlery and the clink of glasses.

A man in a white coat appeared from the back. He had a characteristic strong Flemish face. He spoke to Marler in French.

`Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?'

`Quite splendid,' Marler enthused. 'A meal fit for a king. By the way, we were touring round at random outside Ghent and arrived at what appeared to be a new model village…'

Paula produced her map quickly. She pointed to the cross she had marked for its location. The white-coated man bent over, nodded his head, continued in French.

`We won't get any business from that place. They are very standoffish. All young executives, apparently. They work in Brussels, I gather. Very little is known about them, but they keep themselves to themselves. Enjoy your meal.

`There is something funny about that village,' Paula insisted after the white-coated man had gone. 'The more I think about it, the more I'm reminded of Moor's Landing – even though that place is renovated thatched cottages.'

Another tram screeched as it passed slowly across Koornmarkt. It was a loud penetrating noise, Marler noted. Trams had rumbled past at frequent intervals while they ate.

`Well,' Marler pointed out, 'Dr Wand is linked with the village outside Ghent. I'm certain the chauffeur was Wand in disguise. So there's one connection. But what connection have we between Dr Wand and the New Forest?'

`A solid one,' Paula reminded him. 'As solid as lead. Butler and Nield followed the camper which had been recording the conversations inside Andover's house. Where does it lead them to? The Boltons. No. 185. The home of Dr Wand in London.'

`You're right. Now what about dessert?'

`Couldn't.' Paula patted her stomach. 'It's full to the brim. And we did finish off all those chips. I don't think I even want coffee.'

Marler glanced out of the window. Fatman was still inside the Audi. He was lighting a fresh cigar. Some lunch, Marler thought. He leaned forward.

`Paula, I'm going to get the bill. I'll leave you the money to pay. Then I'm going outside. As I told you, I know this area. Here are the keys of the car. When you see Fatman disappear go straight to the car and sit in the passenger seat. Put the key into the ignition. Then wait for me to reappear.'

`What makes you think Fatman will vanish?'

`Trust me.'

He waved to the waitress. She hustled up to the table. Marler asked for the bill. She looked stunned.

'Pas de dessert?'

`Non.'

She wrote out the bill. Her expression again was one of disbelief. These English, they do not eat! Marler thanked her, passed several banknotes across to Paula when the waitress was summoned to another table. Then he stood up and walked slowly out of the restaurant and across the square.

Paula handed the money to the waitress, and watched with trepidation as Marler reached the far side and drifted to the left past the Post Office. Fatman leaned forward. Even at that distance Paula could sense his indecision as Marler walked past his parked Mercedes.

Reaching the corner of the building, Marler turned right and disappeared. Fatman moved. Clambering out of the Audi, he locked the car, then followed the way Marler had gone, his short fat legs moving clumsily. Paula guessed he was not accustomed to using his feet: the car was his mode of travel.

She watched him arrive at the same corner, disappear out of sight. Marler's prediction had come true. But what could Marler do to lose him – put him out of action – in the centre of a crowded town? She left the restaurant, paused as another tram screeched slowly past, before running to the Mercedes. Unlocking the car, she ran round the front, slipped into the front passenger seat, slid the ignition key into place, waited.

Meanwhile Marler had strolled along the side of the Post Office. He turned right again at the back of the building into Graslei, a cobbled road running alongside a canal. In the near distance a bridge crossed it. Here he realized luck was on his side.

About half-way along the third side of the building was a group of American tourists clustered together for protection in a foreign land. Well dressed, they were the wealthier Americans who came abroad out of season. A girl courier was lecturing them on the history of Ghent as they huddled close to the wall.

Marler edged his way round the back of them as though part of the group. He smiled at a blue-rinse matron. 'Isn't this just all too wonderful?' she drawled as Marler sidled further into the group. He nodded and glanced back. Fatman had appeared, had stopped, unable to see his quarry.

Marler was now standing at the entrance to a narrow alley – Hazewindstraatje. Flemish names could be jawbreakers. He knew the paved alley led straight back to Koornmarkt. Walking swiftly down it he came out close to where the Audi was parked.