Colin Forbes: The Savage Gorge

'First,' Paula began, 'I phoned Swansea with the index number. The Rolls we saw is a company car. Belongs to Otranto Oil. Doesn't get us far. So I phoned your pet accountant and friend, Keith Kent. Asked him about Otranto.'

'That was smart,' Tweed said quickly.

'Keith knows a lot about them. The owner is Neville Guile, a ruthless man who has built up Otranto into a major powerful complex – by buying up small oil companies. Methods he's used are very open to question, including blackmail and worse. Has three Rolls, two company and one his own. Now, listen, his HQ is in Finden Square…'

'Where?' asked Tweed.

'I know it. Finden Square is small, hidden away not so far from Bexford Street and Lynton Avenue, where the murders took place. It's an oasis of peace amid the turmoil of London. I'd like to check it out.'

'Come with you,' offered Marler. 'This Neville

Guile sounds a dangerous character. And he may have seen you if he was in the back of that Rolls.'

'I'd welcome your company,' Paula said. 'Let's get moving.'

As soon as they had left Tweed stared at Newman from behind a fresh pile of red files containing more overseas agents' reports just delivered from Communications. Newman smiled back at Tweed's glare.

'Anything for me to do?'

'Yes. Put on that shabby mac you keep for the East End. Go down there, meet your contacts. Ask if there are rumours about any imminent operation.'

'What sort of operation?'

'How do I know?'

'What's the matter with him?' Newman whispered to Monica as he took his shabby raincoat from a cup board. 'He's like a bear with a sore head.'

'Won't last long,' Monica said soothingly. 'He's frustrated because he's no lead, no connection established with this murder investigation.'

'Then let's hope something breaks soon,' Newman said as he left the office to pursue what he regarded as a futile task.

Marler stared as they entered Finden Square. All four sides were occupied by a stately block of Adam-style terraced houses. Steps led up to each artistically designed front door. At each corner the blocks were separated by a side street to the outside world. In the middle was an oblong garden with evergreen trees and shrubs, surrounded with a high railing.

'And I never knew this existed,' he marvelled.

'You don't walk, exploring, like I do in quiet times,' Paula remarked. 'You spend your spare time sitting in pubs, pretending to listen for information,' she chaffed him.

'It's so incredibly quiet. No one about.'

'That's our target,' she said, pointing through a gap in the foliage to a corner building directly opposite them. 'See the huge letter O poised on a mast on the roof? Looks to be made of perspex – probably illumi nated by night.'

She had just spoken when the front door opened. Marler put a hand on her shoulder, pressed her down into a crouch while he joined her, now concealed by shrubbery. She peered through a small gap, whispered a running commentary.

'Uniformed servant emerging from front door, car rying costly leather luggage. A Rolls-Royce has pulled up at bottom of the steps. Heavily tinted windows in back. Sophisticated radio system on roof. Mr Neville Guile is well organized. Luggage stacks in boot. Chauffeur behind wheel now gazing at front door. Probably waiting… Yes, I was right. A tall slim man in perfectly cut suit walking down to door which the chauffeur has opened for him, standing to attention.'

'What does Guile look like?' Marler whispered.

'Too far away for precise description. Long, lean, could be in his forties. He's stopped to speak to the chauffeur.'

To her astonishment they could hear every word the passenger said. The voice was high-pitched, cultured.

'Jordon, we will stop halfway there until we have more news. Find a good hotel in Oaks-ford. A rea sonable halfway house.'

'Oaks-ford,' repeated Marler. 'Where's that?'

'Oxford. It's the way he talks. Rolls about to leave…'

'Then so are we. He could drive this way and see us. No, not by the side road we entered.' He grasped her arm. 'Down the alley behind us…'

He hustled her across the road into a narrow alley, the like of which Paula had never seen before. The floor was tiled with clean blue slabs. No sign of rub bish, of the unpleasant objects found in so many London alleys. Finden Square extended its air of exclusivity to the main street. As they emerged from the alley, Marler took Paula by the arm, hustled her to the parked Saab he'd borrowed from Pete Nield.

'What's the rush for?' she protested.

'So we can be clear of this main street in case that Rolls is coming this way…'

Without opening the door for her he slid behind the wheel. It was fortunate he'd parked with the car pointed away from the exit out of Finden Square. Paula, seated beside him, turned round as Marler accelerated.

They had reached the end of the main road when, turning a corner and plunging into an inferno of traf fic, Marler cut off a cab. The driver yelled at him, honked his horn.

'Cab drivers think they own London streets, which they do,' Marler commented. 'But no one cuts me off.'

'You were so right,' Paula told him. 'Just before we turned I caught a glimpse of that Rolls. It was turning this way.'

'So where to now?'

'Back to Park Crescent. I want to tell Tweed what we saw.'

Meanwhile, Newman was on the move, heading for the East End. Despite the traffic he reached the dis trict quickly.

He was noted for his fast and skilful driving, sliding through gaps other drivers would hesitate to tackle. He struck lucky, finding his four informants quickly in the pubs where they spent their afternoons.

The third informant, small and tubby as a barrel from the beer he consumed, shook his head, gave the same answer as the previous two contacts.

'I ain't 'card nothing on the go – and nothing planned. It's very quiet round these parts…'

Newman thanked Tubby and gave him a ten-pound note to keep him sweet. He had only one more con tact, just along the street, if he was there. This was the most astute of all his network of informants.

He bought an apple off a stall, and was chewing it when he walked into the Pig's Trotters. His informant was a tall thin man with sleepy eyes which missed nothing. Newman put the same question to him.

'Your timing is uncanny,' said Mr Merton, as he liked to be known, 'and I'd advise you not to look at the bar yet. Someone just came in. Munch that apple slowly – gives you a reason for sitting 'ere.'

Merton was comparatively well educated, but could talk cockney like a native. He sipped his glass of brandy, his favourite, then spoke again.

'Something is up – and the something is ordering champagne at the bar. Name of Lepard – father was French, mother English. Committed at least two mur ders already – one here, t'other in Paris. Escaped conviction both times on a technicality. Word is, he's been hired for a potential end job.' 'End job' was the new slang for a murder assignment.

'Any idea of the target, Mr Merton?' Newman enquired.

'Not a whisper. He's contacted some pretty ugly thugs to stand by for detailed instructions. A load of money has changed hands to keep them ready. May I suggest you shove off – Lepard is about to bring his champagne over to the table near us which just became available.'

Newman slipped Mr Merton a folded twenty- pound note, stood up, walked towards the door, still munching his apple. He didn't like the look of Lepard at all. The killer, wearing an expensive leather jacket and corduroy slacks, moved with a certain agility. His yellow eyes darted everywhere, scanning the whole room. A cadaverous face was softened by his well-shaped chin and a pleasant smile as he nearly knocked over a seated customer's glass of beer. His right hand grabbed the glass, prevented it spilling as he apologized.