Colin Forbes - The Janus Man

Tweed sipped, then took a larger gulp. He set down the glass and beamed, nodding his head with satisfaction. `You may have to help me up to bed.'

`That I would enjoy.'

Across the room Munzel talked to Lydia and watched Tweed's table. He had observed the arrival of the drink. People, their meal finished, were leaving. Other guests, waiting at the entrance, were filling up the tables again. There was a lot of movement. He leaned forward and whispered to Lydia.

`See that chap the other side of the room, the one with a blonde?'

`The one wearing glasses?'

'Yes. I want to play a trick on him. He once beat me to a business deal. He boasts he's never been drunk.'

'Sounds a stuffy type…'

Lydia was merry but still in control of her faculties. She drank just a little more as Munzel went on explaining.

'He is. This is what I want you to do. For a joke.' Under the table he took the plastic tube from his pocket, levered off the top, tipped one capsule into his hand, replaced the top. 'Don't let anyone see this. Hold out your hand when I tell you to. I'll drop a capsule into it. Pretend that we're clasping hands, but don't squeeze it.'

'What's in this capsule?'

'Something harmless – but he'll be rolling like a ship in a storm. You leave the table, pretend you're going to the toilet. As you pass his table you'll have to create a diversion, then drop this in his drink..

'No more instructions,' Lydia broke in. 'I've served behind a bar – as part of my hotel training. This will be fun. I'm ready.'

She reached her hand across the table, turned her palm upwards and he grasped her fingers lightly. She withdrew her hand, holding the capsule, stood up and moved slowly among a crowd of new arrivals. Alongside Tweed's table, she stumbled, put out a hand to save herself and knocked over Diana's half-full glass of wine.

'I'm terribly sorry,' she said in German. She swayed, put out her hand towards the toppled glass. Tweed looked up at Lydia. Her hand passed over his Margharita, dropped the capsule, picked up Diana's glass, mumbling apologies. The wine stained the cloth but missed spilling over on to her dress.

Lydia straightened herself with difficulty, walked on slowly towards the exit, apparently unsteady on her feet. A waiter rushed forward with a napkin, mopping at the cloth.

'Clumsy tart,' said Diana. 'She doesn't know when she's had enough.'

'Nothing on your dress?' Tweed queried. 'Good. You do look absolutely stunning.'

'Thank you, kind sir.'

She glowed with pleasure as the waiter refilled her glass, as Tweed gazed at her. She wore a black velvet evening dress with narrow shoulder straps. In the soft light from the wall lamps her beautifully-shaped shoulders showed to full advantage. She was also wearing jet drop earrings, her lipstick was a pale red, her nail varnish a pale pink. Very nineteen-thirties. Tweed lifted his glass, took several deep sips of the Margharita.

`And I've trimmed my nails,' she said, extending one hand.

`Why?'

`Because I'm learning to type, silly. You can't type with talons. I'm getting pretty good at it. And I've just about mastered shorthand – in English and German. That came easy. The typing's rather a bore. So mechanical…'

Across the room Munzel had summoned the waiter, handed him a one hundred-deutschmark note. 'I may have to leave suddenly – an urgent appointment. That will more than cover the meal.'

`There will be a lot of change, sir…'

`Keep ten per cent for the tip. I'll call back tomorrow for the rest.'

Tweed took another sip of his Margharita, put down the glass and blinked. He took off his glasses, rubbed at them with the corner of his handkerchief, put them back on. He blinked again.

`Is something wrong?' Diana asked.

`Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute. I'm OK…'

He walked rapidly out of the restaurant. Butler saw him go, saw that Diana was left alone and remained in his seat. Tweed pushed his way through the queue waiting for tables, headed for the elevator, pushed the button. His head felt very peculiar.

He walked inside the elevator, pressed the button for his floor. The small elevator began to ascend. He blinked again. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He stepped out, hurried to his room, key in hand. He had trouble inserting the key, turned it, pulled it free automatically and shut the door, then locked it. As he took his hand away his fingers dragged out the key, which fell on the floor.

He turned on the light, stared. The room seemed full of smoke. Something drifted towards him through the smoke, something floating in space. A naked cherub, an evil grin on its horrid little face, a pudgy hand stretched out towards Tweed. Christ! He'd been doped! That bloody girl had dropped something in his glass. He staggered towards the bathroom and the cherub floated backwards, beckoning him on.

Downstairs in the lobby Munzel asked the girl behind the reception counter to get him a pack of cigarettes. She looked dubious about leaving her station until he gave her the tip. The moment she'd gone to the bar he reached over, lifted up the box containing the registration slips, rifled through them. Tweed. Zimmer 303.

He thanked the girl when she came back, paid her, pressed the elevator button for Tweed's floor. Inside the elevator, the second the doors closed, he took out his bunch of keys, found the pick-lock. This was Munzel the pro, he told himself. The master of improvisation – improvisation of accidents.

Tweed was hallucinating. The tiled bathroom floor was crammed with naked cherubs, staring up at him, reaching up to him through the smoke with their beastly little hands. Water! He had to drink water – before the hallucinatory drug thoroughly polluted his bloodstream. He grabbed for the glass, knocked the soap on to the floor, filled the glass, drank it all down, refilled the glass, drank more.

Fresh air! The atmosphere was stifling. Sweat ran off his forehead. He staggered to the double windows, slipped on the soap, saved himself by grabbing the ledge. He threw open both windows. Below was a sheer drop of thirty feet, straight down to the tiled floor of an interior well. All windows overlooking it were glazed, like his own. Better get away – dangerous.

He stumbled back to the tap, filled the glass, drank more water. Something touched his shoulder. He jerked round. One of those hideous cherubs, floating in space. Dining-room, Four Seasons. Then the connection was gone. A horseman in hunting clothes appeared out of the fog. The horse reared up, crashed down on top of him. He felt nothing. A skull floated out of the mists, the skull of Harry Masterson, grinning hideously. He put out a hand, pushed it away, his hand feeling nothing, pushing through the skull. He turned away, grabbed the glass, refilled it. As he drank he glanced into the mirror. Oh, Jesus!

Hugh Grey's image, a head without a body, stared back out of the mirror, laughing madly. With a trembling hand he refilled the glass. He had a moment of clarity. The bloody paintings Masterson had shown him at his Sussex cottage. He forgot what he'd remembered a moment later. He drank more water. The stuff was running down his suit jacket. Get it inside you, for God's sake.

His own head was floating now. He couldn't see it – he could feel it drifting away from his neck. A vile sensation. He refilled the glass, drank greedily. Guy Dalby's head stared at him out of the mirror, catlick drooped over his forehead, an evil smile on his drifting face. Tweed's left hand reached out to the mirror. The image receded, vanished.

He felt his feet leave the floor as though someone behind was lifting him. Now he was floating in space, like one of those astronauts he'd seen on TV. Tweed hammered the glass he was holding down hard on to the area beside the wash basin. He heard, felt, the thud. Again his mind cleared.