Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

`Welcome to Paradise Cottage, Tweed. And who is this delightful vision you've brought with you? Now the day is perfect…'

He shook hands with her and Tweed made introductions. He had warned her before what he would say.

`This is Diana Chadwick, niece of an old friend of mine. She's in London on holiday.'

`Niece, eh?' Masterson dug Tweed gently in the ribs. 'You can do better than that, Tweed.' He looked at her and grinned.

`If we take him at his word there's hope for me yet. Come on in, both of you. Care for a drink? And where the devil is your car? You can't have walked here.'

`I parked it up the lane. I wasn't sure I was on the right road,' Tweed lied. He'd wanted to surprise his host. Masterson hustled them inside, grasping Diana by the arm. He doesn't waste time, Tweed thought ruefully. He glanced up at the cascade of purple-flowering clematis flowing down either side of the doorway as he entered. Masterson glanced back, missing nothing.

`Damned good stuff, that creeper. Doesn't need a thing doing to it. Just grows and grows, like Topsy did. Can't stand gardening…'

`So I observed,' Tweed replied drily.

`I'll show Diana the cottage,' Masterson rambled on buoyantly. 'You've seen the place, Tweed. Make yourself at home in the sitting-room. Help yourself to a drink. We'll be back soon…'

He winked at Tweed as Diana dropped her handbag on a settee in the cluttered living-room, the soft furniture covered with chintz designs. Cushions lay scattered at random, several on the floor.

Tweed waited until they had climbed the twisting, creaking steps of the staircase. He'd have good warning when they were coming back. His agile fingers picked up Diana's handbag, opened it, checked the contents quickly. No travellers' cheques, just a wad of folded banknotes. He counted them.? 250. Mostly in twenties. When he'd met her at Heathrow she'd excused herself while she went to the Midland Bank exchange. He returned the notes to the zip pocket exactly as he found them and replaced the handbag on the settee.

Thrusting both hands in the pockets of his sports jacket, he wandered over to the bookshelves. The selection surprised him. A number of works by Jung and Freud, thrillers by popular authors, a large collection of travel books about Eastern Europe – the latter working material, he presumed.

He bent down to study Masterson's record collection, all LPs. Again an odd range of taste. Stravinsky, Beethoven, Chopin, Schubert and some music to dance to, mostly tangos. The hi-fi deck incorporated into the bookcase at eye-level was expensive. Hearing them at the top of the staircase, he grabbed a travel book and was sitting in an arm chair when they reappeared deep in conversation, chattering and joking. Diana sat down on the settee next to her handbag. Masterson disappeared into the kitchen, Tweed heard the clunk of the fridge door and their host waltzed in holding a bottle aloft.

`Champagne for the troops! Come into the kitchen. Watch an expert at work!'

He was stripping off the foil as they followed him. Tweed took in the equipment at a glance. Modern laminated cupboards and worktops in dark blue. None of your rustic olde worlde equipment favoured by Hugh Grey who would always go for the new and the trendy. Harry Masterson wouldn't give a damn.

A collection of kitchen knives lay in the compartment of the wooden box next to the sink. So far as Tweed could see there was no sign of a chef's knife. Over the sink on the wall a brass plate (in need of cleaning) hung, rather like a medieval shield with a central boss.

`I'm going to hit that brass plate dead centre,' Masterson joked as he fiddled with the cork, aiming it at the plate. He aimed the bottle like a gun, the cork shot out and hit the boss.

`Bull's-eye!'

He held the bottle over an aluminium jug placed alongside three tulip glasses. The surplus champagne was caught inside the jug. Masterson was extraordinarily agile.

`That's some of mine,' he bubbled, filling the glasses, then handing them round.

`A toast! We must have a toast!'

`Well, what are we drinking to?' Tweed enquired. `Damnation to our enemies!'

`What a funny toast,' Diana said after drinking. 'I can think of only one enemy I've got…'

`And who is that?' asked Masterson, wrapping an arm round her waist as he escorted her back to the living-room.

`A woman called Ann Grayle. Used to be a diplomat's wife,' she said as she sat down on the settee. Masterson perched his backside on the arm, next to her. 'I first knew her in Africa, Kenya – all of twenty years ago.'

`Kenya?' Masterson sounded intrigued. 'Twenty years ago it had just gained its independence…'

`In 1963. I was there before then in what Ann calls the good old days. They were, too. Lots of parties. Went on all hours. We saw the dawn come up over the bush. You know Kenya, Mr Masterson?'

`Harry. May I call you Diana? I'm going to anyway. And I've never been near Kenya in my life. Sounds just like my sort of place. Twenty-odd years ago. Don't you agree, Tweed?'

`Oh yes, you'd have played hell with the women, Harry.'

Tweed's tone was caustic. He was studying the two of them as he settled further back in a deep arm chair. Masterson's chin had a blued look. He had obviously shaved first thing but already he was showing a five o'clock shadow. He laid a large hand on Diana's exposed and shapely knee as she sat with her legs crossed.

`Why not make it a day in the country? I can rustle up something edible. For dinner we could all go to a super place not five miles away. The trout is out of this world.'

`I think we have to get back to London,' she said and lifted his hand from her knee, placing it back on his leg. 'Isn't that right, Tweed?'

`Yes, I'm afraid it is, but thanks for the invitation.' Masterson jumped up, grabbed the bottle and refilled glasses. He looked at Tweed.

`Tell you what. I'll give you both a rare treat, show you some of my paintings. My studio's through that door. North facing light and all that. I don't show many people,' he went on as he led the way.

The studio was littered with oil paintings, some of them on the floor face up. Tweed followed Diana, holding his glass and stepping carefully over the pictures. A large old-fashioned wooden easel stood at an angle to the window, the painting Masterson was working on draped with a cloth so it was invisible.

`Sit down,' Masterson invited.

`Where?' asked Tweed.

`Sorry. Half a tick…'

He removed piles of sketch-books off two hard-backed, rush-seated chairs. As they sat down Tweed was thinking all the furniture in the cottage had probably been handed down to Masterson from relatives – or picked up for a song in Portobello Road. The usual public school background- Masterson had gone to Winchester- which made a man totally unaware of his surroundings.

Like a matador, their host took hold of the cloth, paused and then whipped aside the cloth swirling it like a cape. Tweed stiffened, staring at the exposed portrait. A head with staring eyes hung in space. No head and shoulders, just the head, strangely alive. The eyes stared at Tweed with extraordinary intensity, a chilling coldness. Behind it a giant wave hovered, just before breaking, foam curling along its crest. It was a portrait of Hugh Grey.

`A poor thing, but mine own,' Masterson joked.

`I find it remarkable,' Tweed said in a subdued tone. `Next one coming up…'

He whipped the unframed canvas off the easel, propped it up against a wall, collected another canvas, also draped with a cloth. He took trouble centring it and removed the cloth with his back to them so they couldn't see. Then he stepped aside.

This time Tweed was ready and sat with his hands relaxed in his lap. Guy Dalby. A three-quarter view, again the head only, suspended in a fog, the kind of fog Tweed associated with Norfolk. More like a ghost than a man, but still unmistakable a likeness. A devilishly clever likeness, but exaggerated, which made it even more life-like.