Rhinoceros

'The usual question.' He smiled. 'I never guess. But I will tell you it could be a long haul…'

Marler stood up when they were alone. He slipped on his topcoat.

'I'm obeying orders. I'm off to my flat to pack a few things, then I'll trawl Ebury Street, find that place where someone tried to bump off Lisa. I may stay in the area for several days. Something has just struck you.'

'It has. I wonder where the devil that Mark Wendover has got to?'

It was a quiet time in The Hangman's Noose. Herb was polishing the bar counter when Mark Wendover walked in, asked for a dry Martini. Herb looked dubious. 'I get a hint of American from the way you speak.' 'British mother, American father. Spent half my life here. Educated here and in the States. Get the picture. What's the problem?'

'Do my best, but Americans are perticular about Martinis. Saw you mixing it with those rioting swine,' Herb remarked as he took great care over the Martini. 'Saw you with a pal of mine, too. I'm Herb.'

'I'm Mark.' Wendover paused. I'm looking for a man called Delgado. Have a hunch his pad is somewhere round here.'

'You try your luck with some dangerous villains. Don't know where Delgado kips down – but I've seen him prowling round 'ere quite a bit. Especially down Reefers Wharf. That's across the street to the left. Any good? Don't mind if you won't pay for it.'

Wendover had just sipped his Martini. He licked his lips, took another sip, then raised the glass to the barman.

'This is the best Martini I've had since I was in New York. They couldn't do any better over there.'

'Thanks. Tries to oblige.'

Herb started polishing the bar again. Wendover had hoped his genuine compliment about the drink would get Herb talking but the British were careful what they said to visitors. He tried another tack.

'Just between us, the reason I'm after Delgado is I'm CIA.' He produced the folder he had deliberately omitted to hand in when he'd left Langley. The open folder he held up showed his photograph. He slipped it back into his pocket. 'I need to know as much about him as I can.'

'That's just beween you and me. The CIA business. And so is what I'm going to tell you. Delgado is an ugly customer. He was in 'ere one day, chatting to a pal at this very bar. I've got good 'earing. He said "I wish we can find out more on Rhinoceros".'

'That's an animal,' Wendover commented.

'I know. But 'e made it sound more like a person. Which I thought was strange. I s'pose that's why it stuck in my mind.'

***

Wendover left the pub, headed for Reefers Wharf. On his way he went into a phone box, one of the old red boxlike types, which he preferred to the new modernistic horrors. Newman answered the phone.

'Mark here, Bob. Ever heard of a guy called Rhinoceros?'

'Where did you hear that name?'

Newman's tone was sharp. At least, thought Mark, I now know it is someone's name. He asked to speak to Tweed. Always talk to the top man, or as high as you can go, had been Wendover's experience.

'He's not here. He's away on a trip. Don't know when he'll be back. Now, once again, where did you hear that name? And where the hell are you? With this outfit you work as a member of a team…'

Newman was talking into nothing. Mark had broken the connection. He'd try to get hold of Tweed later. At the moment he wanted to explore Reefers Wharf. He paused at the entrance to a very wide street leading towards the distant river.

There were very large five-storey buildings with the fifth storey in the sloping roof. The buildings furthest away had a modern look, renovated by a so-called architect in a feeble attempt to preserve the original warehouses' appearance. They had large opaque blue-glass windows you couldn't see through. They reminded Wendover vaguely of a miniature version of Park Avenue in New York.

The buildings closest to him had not been touched. They were still the warehouses that had stood there for heaven knew how many years. Their walls of slatted wood had a decrepit look, as though uninhabited. The dormer windows perched on the sloping fifth floor looked as though at any moment they might slide into the street.

He walked a short distance down the street, paused. The sun had come out, was a blinding glare on the buildings, but on his side of the street were dark shadows, alleys leading off, very narrow, cobbled and twisting. Then he saw Delgado.

The giant, holding a bottle in one hand by its neck, was walking unsteadily towards him on the sunny side. Wendover slipped into the shadows of an alley, peered out. Delgado had passed the renovated buildings, which Wendover could now see were occupied by companies, was strolling past the old warehouses.

A single-decker bus came crawling along the street, hiding Delgado from view. When it was near the top of the street Mark could no longer see Delgado. He had vanished into one of the old warehouses. But which one? It could have been any one of four. He went back to The Hangman's Noose, told Herb what had happened.

'I'll have to hang around here until I spot him again. Maybe for days. Know anywhere I can get get a room?'

'Here. Upstairs. The one I gave Lisa, the attractive girl I saw you with during the riots. A taxi arrived this morning to collect her case.' Herb looked at the American. Tall, fair-haired, with a large body to match. But it was the clothes Herb was looking at. 'Hope you don't mind me sayin' so – but you're too smartly dressed to mooch around here for days. You stand out from the crowd. There's a shop just down the road called Wingers. They'd have the kit you need.'

'Thanks. I'll go there now…'

He returned later, holding a carrier bag with his new suit inside. Herb looked at his new get-up approvingly. Mark was clad in a shabby camouflage jacket, well-worn denims, a Para's discarded red beret on his head.

'You'll do. I'll show you the room…'

Marler had found the flat where Helga Trent had been murdered. It had not been difficult. Police tape still cordoned off the building and on the first floor he noted two bullet holes in a window.

Earlier, carrying a hold-all, he had found a 'hotel' – no more than a boarding house – but it had a small bar. It also had a vacant room which he'd taken.

Now, just before dusk, he stepped over the tape, rang the bell of the flat. A middle-aged woman with a disagreeable expression and suspicious eyes opened the door, stood in the entrance like a guardian, beefy arms folded.

'Are you the landlady?' Marler enquired.

'I'm the owner, if that's anything to do with you.'

'I'm a friend of the late Helga Trent.' Marler smiled and when he did so the opposite sex usually took to him. 'I would very much appreciate it if we could have a few minutes' chat about her…'

'You're another bloody reporter. I can smell them a mile off.'

'No, I'm not. Just a few minutes of-'

'Go jump off Beachy Head.'

She slammed the door in his face. He heard her bolt and lock it. Marler decided he wasn't going to get far with this paragon of the female species. He went back to his hotel and into the bar. Officially he was a solar-energy salesman. He didn't think he would run into anyone else in that line of business.

A peroxide blonde wearing a miniskirt sat on a stool next to him. She lit a cigarette, looked him up and down.

'Care to buy me a drink, darling?'

'You live round here?'

'I might.'

'I don't think you do.'

'Bloody well drink on your own.'

She got off her stool, walked away swinging her hips, then out of the front door. Marler was trying to contact someone who knew the area.

He had to wait five days before he struck lucky. It was dark outside when a big man in a shabby suit walked in as though he owned the place, sat on a stool. He shouted his order at the girl behind the bar.

'Double Scotch. Neat. No muckin' about.'