Precipice

'Two days ago. I'm recovering from my cold, but as you can probably tell it's still with me.'

'So you doubt very much whether the bonds would have been in the safe when the fire took place?'

'Absolutely certain. I know – knew – him well. And to reassure me I think he said the end of the month when he probably meant the end of March.'

'You did once see that the bonds were kept in the safe?'

'Yes, as I told you on the phone he once opened it in my presence. I can remember his exact words. "Would you like to see three hundred million pounds, the bulk of the bank's capital?" He then opened the safe, which was stuffed with folders. He opened one and showed me one of the bearer bonds. I was staggered at the amount one bond alone was worth. Issued by some huge oil company – I forget which one. That, of course, was before he loaned them to this unknown man.'

'Can you remember the colour of the folders?'

'Yes. They were the old concertina type – with separate sections. The colour was a faded green. I had the feeling they'd lain there inside that safe for years.'

'And you still think this enormous sum wasn't the total capital of the bank?'

'No, the General went out of his way to explain that all the different branches had their own funds and assets, more than enough to keep them going.'

'And you believed him?' Tweed asked quietly.

'Oh, yes.' She smiled wanly. 'My uncle was an honest man. He'd never have deprived the branches of their own funds. He'd feel he had a duty to the depositors who used the branches to guard their security.'

'If you had been able to accept his invitation to stay at the manor that night am I right in thinking his only remaining relatives would have been there? And the only three people who knew he had loaned the bonds to someone?'

'Yes, you are right. Richard, his son, also knew about the bonds and didn't like what he had done.' She drank more coffee and stared at Tweed as she put down the cup. 'You're thinking that if I'd been there no one would have been left who knew about those bonds, aren't you?'

'Well, yes.' Tweed was admiring her as a gutsy lady. 'So who else knew you were coming?'

'Only Marchat, who acted as butler, cook, cleaner -you name it. A nice, very quiet little man.'

'Could he have talked to anyone about your visit -and the fact that what remained of the family would be in the manor that night?'

'I don't see why not. Marchat used to visit a pub in the evenings, a pub in Wareham. He wouldn't see any reason to keep it a secret. I gathered that after a couple of drinks he'd become quite talkative.'

'Miss Mayfield, I'd better warn you that a man from the Yard, Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan, is bound to interview you sooner or later. Tell him everything you've told me – except the last bit you've just told me about Marchat. And emphasize the bank will stay solvent, that the branches are all right. Once information like that -about the bonds – starts getting known it could cause a panic.'

'I'll tell him. He's already phoned me at my home and said he'd like to see me soon.'

'Thank you for giving me your time.' Tweed said, and he helped her on with her coat. 'You've been very helpful.'

She turned round and stared at him. Her lips trembled, then her mouth became firm and she had a very determined look.

'I've heard rumours, Mr Tweed. Read accounts in the newspapers. Was my uncle murdered?'

'Yes. There's no doubt about that. Sorry to put it so bluntly, but I think you're the sort of woman who prefers frankness.'

'I do. And I thank you for being frank.' She hesitated. 'Is there any chance that the person or people responsible will ever be brought to justice?'

'I'm working on it personally. If I ever do prove who did it I'll see they pay the ultimate penalty. Don't ever repeat what I've just said.'

'I won't. Again, thank you.' she said, holding out her hand.

'One final question. Have you any idea of the nationality of Mr Marchat?'

'Yes. He was Swiss. Very hard workers, the Swiss…'

On his way in a cab to see Professor Grogarty Tweed's mind was in a whirl. He liked Maggie Mayfield. She was the sort of woman he suspected he could marry if she were willing. But of course his wife, who had long ago deserted him overnight to live with a Greek shipping magnate, was still his wife. He had never bothered with a divorce.

It was a subject his staff never brought up. The only person he occasionally talked to about it was Paula. You're an idiot even to contemplate the idea, he told himself.

He thought of Philip, enamoured with Eve. Maggie Mayfield would be a much better choice but he had no intention of interfering. Philip must make his own decision, for better or worse.

Marchat. He couldn't get the name out of his head. He still thought that Marchat could be the key to solving the mystery. If they ever found Marchat. If he was still alive.

'Hello, Tweed,' Professor Grogarty greeted him in his high-pitched croaky voice. 'Grab a chair, if you can find one unoccupied. Care for a Scotch? No? I permit myself one each day after eleven in the morning. Never a minute before…'

Tweed took off his coat, looked round the room, which had once been a consultant's. Armchairs everywhere, the covering worn and faded, and all piled up with books and files of papers. He removed a pile of newspapers, placed them carefully on the floor.

'Bet you wonder how I find anything,' Grogarty croaked. 'Well, I can lay my hand on a specific sheet of statistics, go to it within seconds. Cheers! Sorry you won't join me with a Scotch…'

Tweed was sitting in an armchair, studying his host. He never ceased to be fascinated by his extraordinary personality, his appearance.

Grogarty was a bulky man, six feet tall with wide, stooped shoulders. He had a large head, a mop of unruly grey hair, thick brows, pouches under intensely blue eyes, and a prominent hooked nose on which perched a pair of pince-nez at a slanted angle – so one eye peered through the lens while the other gleamed over the top of the second lens. His mouth was broad and below it he had a couple of jowls.

'You always come to me with a problem, Tweed, and I am thinking you have done so today. Why not surprise me sometime and drop in for a chat and a tot? All right, what is it?'

With his free hand he shoved books off a chair onto the floor and sat down.

'Now your filing system's gone to pot,' Tweed chaffed him.

'No it hasn't.' Grogarty lowered his bulk into the chair, sat upright. 'There are twelve books down on the carpet and I can see from here which is which. I am ready, sir!'

'You've heard, I'm sure, that twenty top-flight scientists have gone missing. Despite the weird fact that the news has been kept out of the newspapers – even in the States, which is quite something.'

'I have indeed heard. Most sinister. I called Joe Katz, astrophysics, in South Carolina. A stranger told me he owned the house, that Mr Katz had gone to live abroad. Indeed, a top man. Katz had invented a system whereby a satellite in orbit two hundred miles up can be guided by the star constellations.'

'He's on this list of everyone missing – with a note of his particular speciality.'

Grogarty took the folder Tweed had handed him, opened it, adjusted his nose clip so both eyes peered through a lens and ran down the list in a matter of seconds. He gave Tweed back the folder. The speed with which he could grasp every single item on a close-packed sheet of typing never ceased to astonish Tweed. Grogarty took another sip.

'You're looking for a pattern, something which would make these sixteen men and four women a team, I would suspect.'

'You've got it first time. I've looked at that list for hours and sense something, but I'm damned if I know what it is.' Tweed confessed.

'There is something, I agree.' Grogarty stared at the moulded ceiling as though the answer were there. 'Of course it's communications. Global. Worldwide. The system upon which we are becoming far too dangerously dependent. The Internet. The information superhighway, a stupid phrase invented by ignorant journalists. But this list is more than that.'