Colin Forbes - Precipice

'Made any anonymous calls to the police?' Buchanan rapped out almost before Newman had finished speaking.

'Not since this morning.' Newman said with a broad grin. 'It isn't really one of my pastimes.'

'I'm serious.' Buchanan snapped. He turned to Tweed. 'So why are you down here with such a heavy back-up?'

'Heavy?'

'There's three of you here and Philip Cardon was with you. Where has he disappeared to? Paula, maybe you would care to enlighten me.'

Paula gave the explanation Tweed had suggested. Coming from her the story carried conviction and Buchanan looked frustrated.

'You're all lying,' he said grimly. 'I suppose you're going to say you haven't heard about the three murders.'

'Are you talking about General Sterndale and his son, Richard?' Tweed enquired, jumping in.

'That's two of them. How do you know about them?'

'It's local gossip,' Tweed said in a bored tone. 'I have even heard the Sterndale mansion was burnt down, that it was arson…'

'It was! The place was sprayed with petrol and then set alight while Sterndale and his son were inside.' He switched his attention suddenly to Paula. 'You know a place called Devastoke Cottage?'

'How do you spell that?' she asked sweetly.

'Never mind.' Buchanan reached in his pocket, pulled out a small cheap wooden frame with a photograph, and tossed it into Tweed's lap. The frame slipped down between his legs under the table and came apart. As he bent down to retrieve it Tweed saw there were two photographs of the same man, one behind the other. He fiddled with the strut at the back of the frame, slipped one photo out, put his foot on it, brought the other photo and the frame above the edge of the table. He spent a short time re-assembling it so the full-length picture of a man in a garden fitted back inside the frame. Then he studied it.

'You've seen him somewhere before?'

Buchanan stared hard at Tweed. He'd made it sound like an accusation.

Paula slipped her shoulder bag onto the floor, rubbed her shoulder as though the strap had been uncomfortable. While Buchanan's attention was concentrated on Tweed she bent down, picked up the photo as Tweed raised his foot, slipped it inside her shoulder bag. Her hand came up holding a handkerchief and she pretended to blow her nose.

'You've had enough time to study it,' Buchanan rasped.

'I've never seen this man in my life.' Tweed said truthfully. 'But he has an interesting face. Who is it?'

'Marchat. We're sure of that. We found that framed photo tucked under some foreign newspapers at the back of a drawer.'

'Three murders, you said,' Tweed reminded him. 'Who is the third victim? This man?'

'It was supposed to be, we think. Marchat lived on his own at Devastoke Cottage. We found a body there. But it was the body of a man called Partridge. We found an agreement to lease the cottage in Partridge's favour, as a tenant of Marchat. We believe the murderer made a mistake, thought Partridge, who had just moved in, was Marchat.'

'Why?' asked Newman.

'Because Marchat was a servant at Sterndale Manor, the only one. Normally he lived in five days a week and spent his weekends at the cottage.'

'Still don't understand,' Newman commented.

'We think Marchat could have given us a clue as to who torched Sterndale Manor, that he was supposed to have perished in the flames with the Sterndales.'

'I suppose it's a theory.' said Newman.

'So.' Buchanan said, taking back the framed photograph, 'none of you know anything? Is that it?'

'We know what you've told us.' Tweed said placidly. 'Oh, you mentioned you found that photo under some foreign newspapers. What country were they from?'

'Copies of the Journal de Geneve. At least a fortnight old. Geneva. Switzerland

After talking to Tweed outside Bradfields, Keith Kent's remote house, Harry Butler headed back on the Fireblade through Corfe and Studland to where he had hidden his car.

He left the motorcycle perched on the grass verge and walked the last hundred yards to the entrance to the sandy track. He held his own Walther by his side, approached the Sierra cautiously. It appeared to be just where he had left it.

He listened for several minutes, heard only the endless crash of the waves on the invisible shore. He next got down on his knees, dropped flat, crawled under the car. No bomb had been secreted under the chassis. He ran back to the Fireblade.

Pushing it on the opposite side of the road, he found the disturbed gorse where he had left the unconscious body of the fake policeman. The body had gone.

'Probably hitched a ride to as near to Grenville Grange as he could manage,' he said to himself.

He became very active. He wheeled the machine back to a gap in the gorse hedge he had noticed, pushed the machine through to the edge of the quagmire beyond. He gave the Fireblade a hard shove, watched it enter the marsh, the front wheel sinking first, followed by the rest of the machine which disappeared under the evil ooze.

He had taken his windcheater and the Luger out of the pannier before getting rid of the Fireblade. He took off the black leather jacket, hurled it into the quag, then threw the Luger with his gloved hand. The gun vanished in seconds.

He returned to his car, was about to switch on the engine when he heard motorcycles coming from the direction of Studland and towards the ferry. Wishing he'd kept the Luger a little longer, he left the car, crept forward, hid behind a thick bush.

He was just in time to see the stretch limo with tinted windows cruise past, bound for the ferry. A single outrider, clad in black leather like the others, brought up the rear.

I think Tweed will be interested, Butler was thinking. Mr Big-Wig didn't spend long at the old dark house…

He waited a few minutes, then drove out, turned left for Studland and Wareham way beyond.

'I feel in need of some fresh air,' Tweed had remarked pleasantly to Buchanan when the interview ended.

They were walking up to the square leading to South Street when Buchanan, at the wheel of an unmarked car with Warden alongside him, passed them.

'I think we all coped with that rather well,' Paula mused.

'Certainly he couldn't get a handle on us,' Tweed agreed. 'But he didn't believe one word we'd said. Let's call in at the Black Bear.. .'

There was no sign of Buchanan's car when they crossed South Street. They found Marler leaning against the bar when they entered the hotel.

'This is Ben,' Marler said, introducing the barman, who greeted them cheerfully. 'He's standing in for a friend who's away on holiday. What are you drinking?'

'I need a double Scotch,' said Newman.

'A small glass of white wine, please.' Paula requested.

Tweed had ordered orange squash when he looked back at the doorway and saw Butler, standing in the corridor and beckoning to him. Saying he'd better go to the loo, Tweed joined him outside.

He listened while Butler told him about the motorcade he'd seen returning the way it had come when he'd first spotted it.

Tell Newman on the quiet I'll be back later. I'm on my way to that public phone box. I live in them…'

He was surprised when he dialled the private number at Heathrow of Jim Corcoran, security chief, to find his old friend was in his office.

'Any news about Marchat?' he asked.

'Yes. Good job it's February.'

'Why?'

'Not many passengers. So I had fewer passenger manifests to check. I even found the check-in girl who dealt with him. She remembers him. He seemed nervous.'

'I'm waiting for you to get to the point.'

'Always want everything yesterday. Anton Marchat was the passenger's full name.'

'I have his photo now. When I get back to London I'll send a copy to you by courier. See if the girl agrees the photo is of Marchat.'