Lospin's car followed the same route it had taken the previous day. When it eventually pulled up in front of an apartment building in the select district of Neuilly, the motorcyclist stopped, parked by the kerb, watched.
In his left hand he held a stopwatch. He was checking the exact time it took Lospin to emerge from his car, climb the steps to the front door. He also noticed the chauffeur who had driven the car moved off quickly, as he had done before. Lospin was taking out his key to open the front door when the car vanished at speed round a bend. The same routine as yesterday.
M. Bleu was infinitely thorough in his preparations, tracking his target day by day, looking for a pattern, a routine. It was only when he had discovered one, had checked the timing by his stopwatch, located an escape route, that he decided he could approach his victim, do what had to be done quickly, then vanish.
What he didn't know was that at Interpol, situated inside a fortress building in a city a long way from Paris, there was a file on M. Bleu. In his tiny office inside the building Pierre Marin was examining his copy of the file. The French embassies in Washington and London had wired data on their subject to Interpol.
Why? Because the French never stop worrying. They didn't know of any connection between Schulz and Mordaunt, but they suspected there was one. So did Marin. He had read the file very slowly three times, even though there was very little data. Tweed would have appreciated Marin.
Eventually Marin decided this man did not concern him or his country. French security was too tight. Germany was the next likely target. He scribbled a note in French on the last page. Not for us, could be for you. He then told an assistant to send a copy of the file by courier to Otto Kuhlmann, chief of the Federal Police in Germany.
Kuhlmann, a quick-witted man, read the file once, read the comment Marin had scrawled on the last page. Taking out a pen he scribbled through the comment, wrote one word next to it. Dummkopf. Which is the German word for 'idiot'.
On the same day, at Park Crescent, Tweed received a call from his old friend and sparring partner, Superintendent Roy Buchanan. At times they agreed, then disagreed, but Buchanan was probably the most efficient detective in Britain.
'Come over, now if you want,' Tweed suggested.
'That's me knocking on your door. I've something to show you.'
No more than fifteen minutes later he walked into the office, carrying a large cardboard-backed envelope. In his forties, Buchanan was a tall, lean-faced, lean-bodied man. His hair was dark brown and below his long nose was a neat moustache of the same colour. His eyes were shrewd, swept round the room at its occupants, all of whom he knew. Monica, Paula, behind her desk, Newman in an armchair and Marler, leaning against a wall.
'I've left Sergeant Warden downstairs,' he remarked.
Tweed invited him to sit down and Monica bustled out to fetch coffee. A stranger's impression of the lanky Buchanan would have been that he was relaxed, easygoing – which was a mistake many a villain had made.
'Is it about the riots, Roy?' Tweed enquired.
'Yes and no. I would appreciate your account of what you saw. One of my men recognized you near Reefers Wharf.'
'We didn't see any uniformed police until it was nearly all over,' Newman said caustically.
'That was because I took an unorthodox decision. I sent in teams in plain clothes so they didn't become a target. They ended up arresting twenty thugs.'
'That was clever,' Tweed commented. 'What did we see…'
He gave Buchanan an abbreviated report. Buchanan was writing in his notebook. He had just put his notebook away
– Tweed had made no mention of Lisa – when Monica arrived with the coffee. He drank half a cup, asked his question.
'Any clue as to who is behind them? Here? On the continent? In the States? Pity we hadn't an American contact.'
Mark Wendover had once more not arrived. Nor had he contacted Tweed, who was getting used to the American's independent habits. He shook his head as he answered the question.
'Not a clue. I'm investigating possible sources of finance.'
'Good idea. Very. Jumping to another topic, ever heard of a Mr Blue?'
'Yes,' said Marler. 'What do you know?'
'Only the name. One of my undercover men heard a reference to him in a sleazy nightclub. Made by a man who knows things no one else knows. I only asked because the name struck me.' He looked at Marler. 'Your turn.'
'Mr Blue,' Marler began, 'is the strangest case I've ever come across. Rumour hath it – no more than rumour- that he's a top-class assassin. The weird thing is he's not for hire, no matter how much the money offered on the grapevine. He selects his own targets. That really is weird.'
'So we know nothing,' Buchanan commented. 'Jumping now to a third topic, a murder case. Here in town. In a flat off Ebury Street. I was nearby so I went and interviewed the landlady who rents out the flat. The victim, a Helga Trent, was shot dead from a window across the street. So was her dog.'
'Sounds unusual,' said Tweed quickly.
'I've got here…' Buchanan took a thick sheet of paper, cartridge, from his envelope, gave it to Tweed. 'That's a picture one of our artists drew from the landlady's description of a sister Helga who was visiting her. The sister who rented the flat has since vanished.'
Tweed, his face expressionless, looked down at the drawing. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a woman with long red hair. It was a surprisingly good likeness of Lisa.
Tweed stood up. He walked towards Newman and Paula with his back to Buchanan. He was frowning a warning at them. Paula looked at the portrait, shook her head.
'Can't help you.'
Tweed presented the portrait to Newman, who took his time studying it. He handed it back to Tweed.
'A good-looker. Wish I did know her.'
'Well, it was a long shot,' Buchanan remarked as he returned the paper to its envelope. 'But you lot mix with a whole variety of people.'
'We do,' Tweed agreed. 'If you'd like to have a copy of the portrait reduced to a small size – something I could carry in my pocket – we just might spot her here in town.'
'Make you three copies. One for you, one for Paula and one for Newman.'
'Before you go,' Marler interjected as Buchanan started to stand up. 'Any news from Dorset?'
'I knew there was something else.' The superintendent sat down again. 'The Chief Constable down there had a chopper up all night. They changed crews and the chopper tried its luck in daylight. Not a thing. No sighting of a crowd of men like Tweed described – from what you saw. No buses, but they could have hidden them in old barns.'
'I don't suppose this Mr Blue could have killed Helga Trent?' Marler suggested.
'It is a very strange case,' Buchanan ruminated. 'The landlady said Helga was older than her sister but also had long red hair and looked a bit like her. The body was lying under a window with heavy net curtains. Two bullet holes in the window. One for Helga, the other for the dog. It crossed my mind that maybe the killer had shot the wrong target – that he was after Helga's sister and thought he saw her as Helga stood behind the curtains, with the light on behind her.'
'Anything to back up that theory?' Tweed asked.
'The fact that the younger sister has vanished – and made no attempt to call the police. Mind you, the landlady said they didn't get on. Helga tried to dominate her younger sister – the landlady heard arguments. I must go now…'
Monica held the door open for him, peered down the stairs. Sergeant Warden was sitting motionless on a chair facing George, the guard. As usual, Warden looked like a wooden Indian.
When Monica came back into the room Paula had shifted her desk chair in front of where Tweed was sitting. She sat down.
'That gave me a shock,' she said. 'That drawing is a perfect likeness of Lisa.'