Deadlock

'Oh, no!' Hipper exclaimed. 'Not here. Not here…'

Marler sighed. Hipper was whimpering, almost like a scared puppy. The big Alouette, fuselage gleaming in the pallid sun-light with moisture, descended slowly, a few hundred yards from where they sat in the parked vehicle. Marler could see the pilot was nervous. With damned good reason. A similar bluff of limestone rock projected above the river on the opposite bank.

He waited for the brief clash of metal striking rock, the whirling rotors crashing against a crag. The machine dropped very slowly, landed on the towpath – which was just wide enough to accommodate the Alouette. He reached for the rifle concealed beneath a travelling rug carelessly thrown over the back seat, pulled the telescopic sight free from beneath his seat to which it had been attached by adhesive tape. He asked the question as he cleaned the sight, began attaching it to the rifle.

'Could Newman be aboard that police chopper?'

'I really have no idea…'

'And why are you so concerned the chopper landed at this point?'

'Nothing.' Hipper had hesitated before replying. 'Just a fit of nerves…'

"Then stop yammering and let me concentrate.'

Marler climbed slowly out of the car, walked to the edge of the bluff. He wasn't worried he'd be seen. People looked everywhere except upwards. He adjusted the sight, aimed it at the passengers alighting from the Alouette on to the towpath. Behind him Hipper also alighted from the car, gripping his camera as he joined the Englishman.

'Newman is with that crowd,' Marler observed.

'You can get him?'

Hipper sounded excited. He couldn't keep still. He raised his camera and stared down through the lens at the group moving below.

'Keep your voice down,' Marler whispered. 'Sound carries a long distance in this fog.' He lowered his rifle and glared at the Luxembourger. 'Can't see him now – the fog keeps drifting down there. And get away from me. Climb that hill on the other side of the road. You're disturbing my concentration. What the hell are you doing anyway?'

'Waiting for you to kill Newman. I want a photograph of the body. Our friend will be interested to see that…'

Tweed stood on the towpath, sniffing the dank air, moisture clinging to his face like the fingers of an invisible ghost. Down at the edge of the Meuse the atmosphere was creepy. A shaft of sunlight, reflecting motes of the moisture, shone briefly on the opposite bank and was gone. A heavy silence hung over the river and the damp cold was beginning to penetrate their clothes. Tweed adjusted his wide-brimmed waterproof hat and pointed to the congested morass projecting from the opposite bank.

'That's where I want to explore.'

'God knows how,' Newman commented. 'Care for a swim?'

'What a horrid-looking marsh,' Paula said and buttoned up her raincoat to her neck. 'Are you sure that was the place, Tweed?'

'Quite sure. I saw something. Ah, what have we here?'

Inspector Sonnet, looking mournful, had disappeared along the towpath round a bend. There was a chug-chugging sound and he reappeared, holding the tiller of a large outboard dinghy as he cruised towards them, steered inshore, stopped the engine and climbed on to the towpath, holding a mooring rope.

'I found it tied up to a rotting landing stage,' he explained. 'Probably belongs to a fisherman. This is one of their favourite grounds.'

'And just commandeered by the police for investigation purposes,' Lasalle announced breezily. 'How do' we get out of here if the mist persists? I can't see the pilot agreeing to lift off until it clears.'

'Arrangements have been made,' Sonnet told him. 'A couple of my men are driving two Deux-Chevaux from Givet. They are the only vehicles which can negotiate this towpath. Since they did not know where we would be they started at the end. They should be here soon.'

Tweed glanced at the thin-faced inspector with approval; he seemed well-organized. Almost too good a man for the provinces. He felt the torch he always carried inside his coat pocket, braced his shoulders against the chill.

'Well, who is coming across with me to check over there? I would like Newman with me – if no one objects.'

'I'd like to come to,' Paula said firmly. She saw Tweed's expression. 'At the risk of boring you, someone used the phrase baptism of fire.'

Three of us so far,' Tweed remarked. 'It's a large dinghy. How many will it hold? Safely.'

'Five,' said Lasalle. 'Benoit, you go too. Sonnet is the helmsman. I'll stand guard here. I could do with a stroll up and down this towpath. I'm stiff. Good hunting, Tweed. Bet you don't find anything. ..'

Tweed thanked God he'd taken a Dramamine as he climbed carefully into the rocking bow of the craft which wobbled madly. He gave Paula a hand to come aboard and then sat down, staring at the swamp.

Sonnet handled the dinghy with great skill, heading upstream to counter the flowing current, following Tweed's instructions to bring the dinghy to the reed bank at a certain point. Inshore, the power of the current slackened. Sonnet slowed and nosed the dinghy inside the waist-high reeds, stopping so the outboard was not tangled.

It was very dark beneath the overhang of the forest. Paula was looking everywhere and she stiffened suddenly while gazing up at the bank they had left behind. Tweed sensed her reaction.

'What is it?'

'The mist cleared up there for a few seconds. I could have sworn I saw someone on top of a crag.'

'I doubt it,' Benoit called out. 'The mist plays tricks and you see phantoms which aren't there.'

'I suppose so…'She sounded unconvinced, then broke off as Tweed stood up and shone his torch. 'My God!' she began. 'What are you doing…?'

Tweed appeared to have stepped out of the dinghy into the squelchy morass. His feet hit solid surface and he reached out to pul! at a mass of broken reeds, pulling them away to expose the upper half of a wheelhouse.

Gargantua. The name, a brass plate screwed to the wheel-house, jumped out in Tweed's torch beam. He had removed a mass of broken reeds piled up against the structure. He shone his torch inside the wheelhouse. Empty. The wheel heeled over at a drunken angle.

'God! You were right,' Newman, close to Paula, called out. They sank the barge.'

'Klein's work,' Tweed said. 'I bet six months' pay that when the French forensic people check the hold they'll find traces of gold. Which was why it had to disappear. Better keep back, both of you. The deck's like a skating rink.'

His shoes slopped through a mess of reeds and water, making his way along the inclined deck of the half-submerged vessel. He crouched low, keeping to starboard, holding on to the deck rail. His torch beam picked out a muddled pattern of coiled ropes, oil slicks. It was-the port side which had heeled into the swamp, tilting the starboard clear of the deep water.

Sliding his left hand along the rail, he slithered, recovered his balance, continued towards the bow. Following close behind, Paula was amazed at the agility he displayed, moving one foot in front of the other, feeling his way cautiously, checking what lay ahead with the torch.

Paula knew something was wrong when, close to the slanting bow, he stopped suddenly, his posture rigid. He switched off the torch, turned and called out over his shoulder in a brusque but calm voice.

'Paula, go back. Now!'

'What is it?' she demanded. 'I'm not a schoolgirl, Goddamnit. You saw something. What was it? I'm determined to see.'

'Better come back with me,' Newman suggested.

'Oh, do belt up, Bob. Go back yourself, if you must.'

'Very well,' Tweed said. 'Maybe you're right. Look there.'