'I'm buying. What's your poison, Eve? Oh, hello, Bob. Long time no see.'
'I'm staying with vodka. Another double.' Eve replied.
'A Scotch for me, Philip.' said Newman.
'Oh, you two know each other?' Eve asked, the surprise showing in her voice.
'Off and on. Here and there.' Newman replied, raising his voice slightly so Philip would hear what he'd said. 'Philip's in insurance. I was once investigating a big fraud case and he gave me a few tips. ..'
Philip blessed Newman for guessing so accurately what he had told Eve. He ordered a glass of French dry white wine for himself, brought the drinks over. Eve watched him. In his thirties, Philip was leaner than Newman, more sensitive, she guessed. Less able to cope with life. In this she guessed wrong and badly underestimated Philip. He hauled up a chair so they formed a close circle. Eve drank her fresh vodka and immediately half-emptied her glass. She lit another cigarette from the one she had been smoking. Newman had fished out a lighter but she shook her head.
'I can light my own cigarette.'
'Good for you. You'll learn how to smoke it in time.'
She gave him a cold look, clenched her full lips, then smiled.
'Talking about smoke, you've heard about the terrible fire out near Lyman's Tout?' she asked Newman.
'What fire?'
Eve rattled on about the experience she had had while driving with Philip. She talked about it as though it had been a remote event in the past.
'A bit grisly a topic for such a pleasant evening,' she concluded.
'Grisly if you say Sterndale and his son were locked up inside the place. How do you know they were locked up? That detail about the General closing the shutters himself every night sounds as though you know him,' Newman pressed.
'I can see why you were such a success as a foreign correspondent. Actually, Philip told me. Before dinner he'd met General Sterndale in this very bar. The old boy was quite talkative, I gather. I didn't see him. I was in my suite taking a shower.'
'I heard he was a very old man.' Newman commented. 'I suppose in a place like you described he'd have great log fires. One could have rolled out onto a rug and there we go. A tragedy.'
'There was a log pile, I think,' Eve ruminated, chin perched in her left hand, the right holding the vodka so it wouldn't disappear. 'Outside a barn-like effort. Stacked up against the end of the building, the one where Sterndale kept his old Bentley. The rear of the car was sticking out in the open.'
Philip stayed quiet, sipping his glass of wine. He had no recollection of the log pile Eve had described. But up there on the cliff-top his mind had been a turmoil of emotions – his growing fascination with Eve, remembrances of his dead wife, Jean. He couldn't swear there had been no log pile at the end of the barn. He couldn't be sure of anything. He wondered whether Tweed was still in his office.
'You sent Philip down to Dorset on the excuse of his needing a holiday but your real purpose was to have him on the spot to watch over General Sterndale. Now look at the mess he's in.' Paula accused.
It was ten o'clock at night in Tweed's office at Park Crescent. He sat behind his desk and studied Paula Grey without replying at once. A very attractive slim brunette, she sat behind her own desk, her eyes blazing. His closest confidante and chief assistant, she never hesitated to speak her mind, something Tweed admired. Paula, unmarried after an unhappy love affair, was in her mid-thirties.
The only other occupant, behind her own desk in a corner, was Monica, also a trusted deputy. A small woman of uncertain age, she wore her greying hair in a bun and now she listened to the duel of words, enjoying herself.
'You're partly right.' Tweed admitted. 'But he's spent too many nights and weekends in that nice house he lived in with Jean. I wanted to get him out of the atmosphere of the place. Somewhere in this country – not abroad until I'm sure he's stabilized emotionally. I certainly had no idea his trip would turn out to be so dramatic. And, as you know, Bob Newman has rushed down there at my request as back-up.'
'That will help,' Paula agreed. 'But what is this all about? How did it start?'
'In Paris.'
He rather enjoyed the look of astonishment on her face. All trace of indignation vanished.
'In Paris?' Paula repeated. 'How?'
There was a tap on the door, Tweed called out, 'Come in.' and Marler entered. The deadliest marksman in Western Europe, the new arrival, a long-time member of Tweed's staff, was of medium height, slim and smartly dressed in a shooting jacket, corduroy trousers, and brown hand-made shoes which gleamed like glass. Clean-shaven, he had a cynical smile and was known not to trust a word anyone said to him until he had triple-checked it.
'Evenin'.' he drawled in an upper-crust voice. 'Nice to see you're all having an early night for a change.'
He adopted a typical stance, leaning against a wall while he lit a king-size cigarette.
'Marler.' Tweed began, 'Paula is puzzled about what's going on. Tell her about your Paris trip. You've come here straight off the plane, I imagine?'
'Of course. Paula is puzzled? So am I.'
'Tell her what happened, for Heaven's sake.' Tweed suggested.
'Please do.' Paula urged.
'Started with a phone call from an informant of mine in Paris. Jules Fournier. I can give you his name now the poor sod is dead. We met at five o'clock – after it was dark – outside a bar in the Rue St-Honore. He told me on the phone something big was soon to break, mentioned a name which shook me up a bit. I boarded a flight this morning to suss out the meeting place. Seemed safe enough. A main street in Paris when there'd be lots of other people about. I didn't realize that could be dangerous. Black mark.'
'What name did he mention?' asked Paula.
'All in good time. It's that quick mind of yours. So bear with me. Fournier was a slip of a man with greasy hair. He'd been a totally reliable informant of mine in the past. I was leaning up against an outside window of the bar, pretending to read Figaro. Lots of people about, hurrying home from work, as I'd anticipated. I was carrying a Walther automatic in a hip holster – borrowed from a friend in Paris earlier. You never know on an assignment like that. Fournier turned up out of nowhere.'
'On foot?' asked Paula.
'That was my impression. He seemed unusually nervous, glancing over his shoulder. He spilled out his so-called information in French. Didn't make much sense. He mentioned the same name again, said the chap concerned was engaged on an operation to change the world, that he had contacts everywhere. That was when a group of motorcyclists clad in black leather, wearing crash helmets, came staggering along the pavement. I thought they were drunk. They were shouldering people out of the way, making rude signs if anyone protested. I saw them clearly, but not their faces, of course. As they came up close to Fournier one of them stumbled. I was an idiot.'
He paused, took a deep drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out in the crystal-glass ashtray Monica had pushed close to him on her desk.
'Never heard you say that before.' Paula said quietly.
'I was too intent on what Fournier was trying to tell me. He said he'd sent me a letter. Then it happened. I still curse myself.'
'What happened? I doubt if you could have prevented it. Not in rush hour on the Rue St-Honore.' Paula commented.
'These drunken roughs, as I thought, almost formed a circle round us. My alarm bells started shrieking then, but it was too late.'
'What was too late?' Tweed enquired.
'It was the chap who had stumbled – appeared to -when he cannoned into Fournier. Said, "Sorry, mate," in English. As they disappeared Fournier gave a gulp and fell forward into my arms. I grabbed him round the waist and my right hand was sticky. Blood. The stumbler had rammed a knife up under Fournier's left shoulder blade. As he sagged I checked his pulse after I'd rested him against the window. Nothing. He was dead. A very professional job.'