Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

Tweed could have guessed Ann Grayle was a diplomat's wife. She carried an air of authority of a woman used to organizing other people's lives. And woe betide the wives of the junior staff if they didn't know their place.

`I heard you slandering Diana,' Ben remarked as he served the coffee. Tweed drank some quickly to make sure the pill had gone down.

`Eavesdropping again?'

`You don't seem to realize how your voice carries. They could have heard you in Lubeck.' Ben sagged into a chair and turned to Tweed. 'And I'm sure Diana doesn't live off Dr Berlin.'

`Ah!' Ann Grayle's eyes lit up. 'She has a defender. I wonder what service she rendered Ben to get him on her side?' `You have the mind of a sewer,' Ben stated calmly. `That's because the world is a sewer.'

`You said Luke's body was found and implied Dr Berlin's wasn't,' Tweed remarked.

`Which is perfectly true. They did find a blood-stained jacket in the bush, but no positive identification that it ever belonged to Berlin. The next thing we hear is he's turned up in a hospital for tropical diseases in Leipzig.' She frowned over the rim of her cup. And I recall that was about the time that funny Russian attache paid a visit to Nairobi. Caused quite a stir. We'd never seen a Bolshevik before.'

`You seem to have a good memory,' Tweed coaxed. 'Could you remember his name?'

`Began with an "L".'

`Lysenko?'

`Yes! That was it. We all gave him the cold shoulder. Never knew why he came. He vanished again after about a week.'

Tweed finished his coffee, refused another cup, and said they wouldn't impose on Mrs Grayle any longer. She rose to her feet.

`And I thought we'd be chatting about that horrible murder…'

`Maybe I could come back soon?' Newman suggested.

`Welcome any time. Except between two and four. Always have a nap then. Keeps me young. Bring Tweed with you.' She smiled, a dry smile. 'Diana is waiting for you.'

The large sleek white power cruiser Tweed had observed Diana Chadwick boarding was berthed at the edge of the marina, nearest to the opening to the Baltic. She was sitting on deck shaded by a parasol, reading a German fashion magazine.

`Well,' she greeted them, throwing aside the magazine, `has the cat torn me to pieces?'

`Mrs Grayle?' Newman asked.

`Who else. She hated me in Nairobi. She detests me in Cannes. She loathes me in Lubeck. Apart from that, we get on terribly well. Plonk yourselves. That swing couch is comfortable.'

Tweed sat down and thanked God he had swallowed the Dramamine. The large power cruiser, Sudwind, bobbed slowly up and down, insidiously. The added movement of the swing couch was not welcome.

`Midday!' Diana was in fine form. 'We can have a drink. A drop of cognac? Maybe two drops…'

Newman looked round the vessel while she served the drinks and said, 'Down the hatch!' It would travel a long distance; fully fuelled, was capable of traversing the North Sea. He lifted his glass and asked the question.

`All this is yours?'

`God, no! Wish to heaven it was. Belongs to Dr Berlin. He lets me sleep on it, even live here if I want to. In return, I clean the brass trimmings. Even swab down the deck when I've the energy. Take a look around if you like. I'll stay up on deck and sip my poison.'

Newman led the way up into the wheelhouse and closed the door. Tweed gazed at the instrument panel, peered closer at the various dials. His eyes lighted on the transceiver, a high-powered instrument of the latest kind.

`You can see the waveband Berlin tunes to,' he pointed out to Newman. 'See that tiny scratch mark? Let's check it…'

`I didn't know you were mechanically minded.'

`I did a signals course once. I'll turn down the volume – then Diana won't hear…' He switched a dial, then adjusted the waveband control. There was a crackle, followed by a voice talking in a foreign language, a continuous flow of words.

`Interesting,' said Tweed.

`What the devil is it? I don't recognize the language.'

`Russian. I know just enough to be able to tell what the gist is. It's the Soviet marine control. Weather forecast for the Baltic and the North Sea. Not German – so not from the DDR.

It has to be coming from Kaliningrad. Very intriguing. Let's turn it back to where it was…'

`This job could go a long way.'

`How far? You know more about boats than me.'

`Several hundred miles.'

`Do me a favour, Bob. Show me how to operate it. I've messed about with cruisers on the Broads, but it was a long time ago…'

He listened while Newman explained the functions of the various instruments. The reporter went over everything three times until he was sure Tweed had absorbed his instruction.

`And if you ever have to take a boat like this out, remember one thing if you forget everything else..

`Which is?'

`Keep your eyes glued for'ard – what lies ahead of you. OK. Look back at the stern occasionally. But it's what's ahead you have to watch. And in misty conditions that means the radar-scope. You seem to have mastered that.'

`I think I hear voices. We'd better get back to Diana.'

Her voice warned them as they opened the door, calling up to them in a voice which carried a note of strain. They had a visitor.

`Gentlemen,' Diana called out, 'we have company. May I introduce you to an acquaintance. Kurt Franck.'

The tall blond German, clad in windcheater, jeans and a leather belt round his middle, his feet shod in trainers, waved a large hand in welcome.

`Champagne?' Franck lifted an opened bottle from a table and hoisted it like a flag. Diana had produced four tulip glasses. She sat in her chair, legs crossed, her expression wary.

`Bit early,' Newman replied in German.

'Never too early for champagne! Sit down everyone. Think of a toast…'

Newman sensed Diana disliked her unexpected visitor, the man who had provided a glass of water when she spilt drink on her dress outside the Jensen. Franck, self-assured as the devil, had taken over the cruiser. Without waiting for Tweed to react he poured four glasses. Tweed sat next to Diana with his back to the sun where he could observe the German. Franck raised his glass and gazed at Newman who sat down and reached for his glass.

'I have thought of a toast.'

`Well, come on then! We want to drink…'

'A toast to the swift hunting down of the maniac who killed Helena Andersen…'

Franck froze, his glass in mid-air. His heavy face seemed to grow heavier as his ice-blue eyes stared at Newman. There was a sudden atmosphere of tension aboard the Sudwind.

'I find that a macabre toast…'

'It was a macabre murder. Cheers!' Newman winked at Diana. 'Down the hatch.'

`I'll drink to that,' she said.

'Of course…' Franck sat down and splayed his powerful legs. 'You are a newspaper reporter, so you spend your life grubbing for the dirt…'

`Franck!' Diana said sharply.

`That's OK,' Newman said easily. 'The killing of that Swedish girl was a pretty dirty business.'

`But doesn't your conscience ever prick you?' Franck persisted. 'Poking your nose into people's private lives…'

'It certainly wouldn't bother me if I were investigating you,' Newman told him cheerfully. 'What do you do for a living, anyway? Unless the answer is embarrassing.'

`And why should it be embarrassing?' An ugly note had crept into the German's tone.

`Tell me what you do and we'll know the answer.'

'I'm a security consultant. I protect people's privacy – instead of invading it.'

`That's an interesting job.' Newman sipped a little more champagne, frowned and put down his glass. 'What company?' 'I work independently. Freelance…'

'He chauffeurs rich old ladies,' Diana said with a hint of a dry smile.