Precipice

'What about today?' Paula enquired.

'The situation reminds me of what I've read about the 1930s. A man called Adolf Hitler, evil but a brilliant psychologist, manipulates the Western leaders like pulling the strings of puppets.'

'You mean Brazil could be a new Hitler?'

'No! But you queried that phrase "engaged in an operation to change the world" – the West is leaderless, ripe for a genius to manipulate it.'

'You think Brazil is a genius?'

'I met him not so long ago at a party. He came over to talk to me briefly. I had the uncomfortable feeling he knew who I was, about the SIS. He has contacts all over the place. Like an octopus. A very clever man – and a great charmer. He wants to meet me again but I'm dodging him. For the moment.'

'So we have a murder in Paris, which could link up with two more murders in Dorset. That's pretty wide-spread.' Paula mused. 'And I wonder what happened to the missing servant, Marchat.'

'You noticed that, then?' Tweed smiled drily. 'Over the phone, as I told you earlier, Chief Inspector Buchanan told me quite specifically the fire brigade had searched what remains of the manor and brought out two bodies -identified as Sterndale and his son, Richard. So what happened to this shadowy figure Marchat?'

Inside a large old stone house on the fabulously expensive Avenue Foch in Paris, a large tall man sat behind a Louis Quinze desk. The walls of the room were lined with bookcases but the lighting was very dim, the room mostly in darkness. He spoke in English to his visitor, seated on the far side of the desk and shrouded in gloom.

'I think you ought to start on your travels again. Take an early flight to Heathrow tomorrow, hire a car, drive down to Dorset. Specifically, to Wareham. Clear?'

'As far as it goes, yes,' replied the visitor. 'What am I looking for in Dorset?'

'Trouble. It may be a clean-up job you have to undertake. If so, do it. No loose ends, please.'

'I'm an expert at locating them, tying them up.'

'Which is why I'm sending you. I've explained what has happened, as far as I know it. Certain people will be running all over the county like ants. Watch your step.'

'I always do that,' the visitor replied, pushing back his chair prior to leaving.

'I repeat, watch your step.' Leopold Brazil emphasized. 'You don't know the details, but a world is at stake.'

In the bar of the Priory Eve Warner tilted her glass, knocked back her fourth large vodka. Newman watched her cynically. As far as he could tell the amount of alcohol had no effect on her. She had a head like a rock. Philip was sipping the last of his single glass of wine.

'Bed for me.' Eve announced. She yawned without putting her hand over her mouth. 'It's been an exciting day.'

'I wouldn't call it exciting.' Philip objected. 'I think tragic is a better word.'

'Well. It isn't as though we'd known either of the victims. Good night, Bob. See you in the morning, I hope?'

'Possibly.' Newman replied.

'Tap on my door, Philip, when you come down. Just to say good night.'

'Your rooms are close?' Newman asked Philip when she had gone, leaving the bar empty except for the two men.

'I'm not in the main hotel. There's what they call the Boathouse down by the river. You get to it through some French windows in the lounge. Eve's got the suite across from mine.'

'Convenient.' Newman commented with a dry smile. 'How did that come about?'

'By chance. Tweed, who knows this place, booked me the suite. Eve was booked into the one opposite. I have just met her.' Philip ended with a note of protest.

'Don't mind me. Just joking. How did you meet her?'

Philip explained the circumstances, leaving out any mention of the red Porsche which appeared to have followed him from Park Crescent. He'd first seen it close to Baker Street underground station.

'Well, it will make a change from being on your own in that empty house. You're not moving, then? It's over a year since Jean died, isn't it?'

'Yes.' Philip paused. 'That house was our home and I am definitely not leaving it. Tweed sent you down here as back-up, didn't he?'

'Yes. He's very worried about something which happened since you arrived. He didn't say what. The barman has gone. Open your jacket so I can get at the pocket.'

Philip obeyed the suggestion without comment. Newman produced a Walther eight-shot 7.65mm automatic with spare mags, slipped the weapon into the pocket.

'Your favourite weapon. It was Tweed's idea. So he has to be worried.'

'Something you ought to know. As Eve told you, I met General Sterndale in this bar much earlier – before she and I drove out to the cliff at Lyman's Tout. Sterndale told me that despite having a servant who lived in, a man called Marchat.'

'Spell that, please.'

Philip did so. He'd asked the General the same question.

'Did Sterndale tell you where this Marchat came from? To me the name sounds Mittel-European.'

'No, he didn't. I was going to say Sterndale told me his house was so isolated he personally closed and locked up every shutter over windows each evening.'

'So he created his own fire-trap, poor devil. Tweed gave me all the details he'd got from Buchanan. I called him from a phone box when I was close to Wareham. I'll walk you down to this Boathouse place, if you don't mind. It sounded fascinating…'

The garden beyond the French windows was illuminated with lanterns at intervals. As they walked together along a pebble path Philip told Newman about Marchat.

'The weird thing is.' he went on, 'this servant, Marchat, seems to have vanished without trace. Tweed was quite definite only two bodies were brought out of the ruins.'

'So in the morning we'll start tracking Mr Marchat. As he lived in the mansion the local pubs would be a good place to start. In the country they know all about who is who. This is quite a place.'

They had arrived at the Boathouse. It appeared to be a modern building, designed to fit in with the ancient Priory, or there had been skilful renovation. Newman peered in through tall glass doors as Philip took out his key. Beyond was a large hall with a stone floor, very spacious and with several doors leading off.

'My suite is the one at the end on the left, overlooks the River Frome. Eve's is the one on the other side of the hall.'

'See you in the morning for breakfast – if that isn't getting in the way of a friendship,' Newman suggested. 'You need some female company.'

'I'll join you for breakfast.' Philip paused. 'I've only just met her. She's attractive but I keep getting danger signals flashing. And she told me she was – I'm quoting her exact words – "I'm in security. And it's rather special…" I got the impression she'd let that slip out.'

'Said something similar to me.' Newman slapped him on the back. 'It's just possible she's on our side.'

'Then why is she so aggressive?'

'Because she's clever and that attitude makes for a good cover. Sleep well…'

The outer door to the hall, illuminated by bright lamps, closed and locked automatically. Reaching Eve's closed door, Philip paused. Would she think he was trying to move too fast? But it had been her idea. He rapped on the door which was unlocked and opened a few inches almost at once.

'Just saying good night.' Philip told her.

'Good night to you. I'll be up at seven o'clock. You sleep in and we'll meet later.'

The door was closed and he heard her lock it. Inside his own suite he began exploring again. He'd spent only a few minutes inside earlier, opening his case, hanging up jackets and trousers. Jean had always told him to do this. 'Even if you're in a rush, do open your case and take out the things which could get creased…'