Precipice

'An old friend. Who the devil is this coming?'

Marler slipped a Walther out of its holster, held the weapon by his side. A scarecrow-like figure was cycling down the road towards them.

***

Paula gazed in disbelief at the man who jumped off his bicycle. He wore a battered old hat, a pair of glasses perched at a cock-eyed angle on the bridge of his nose, a shabby raincoat smeared with oil. It was only the dead cigarette at the corner of his mouth which told her this was Archie.

'Have to get rid of the bike,' Archie said urgently. 'I'll shove it off that cliff over there into the sea. Tide's on the turn.'

'I'll do that,' Paula said firmly.

Thank you. Mind how you go.'

Archie stripped off the hat and the raincoat, exposing the same blue suit underneath. From a pannier at the rear of the cycle he took a travelling bag and joined Newman to climb into the boot.

Paula, by the light of the moon, pushed the bike a distance to her left uphill. Reaching a point where the cliffs were higher she took hold of the saddle, pointed the front wheel towards the sea, gave it a strong shove. As it went over a huge wave crashed against the cliff, threw spray high up in the air, and the cycle was gone. She hurried back as Tweed was instructing Newman and Marler.

'When Paula and I get back we'll have dinner at the Priory. Don't forget our eleven o'clock appointment with the bartender, Ben. Bob, you do know the way to Bowling Green? It will be dark.'

'There's a moon. Have fun with your mysterious friend at the manor

…'

Leaving Corfe behind, Tweed accelerated up the steep winding hill, slowed to pass through Kingston, then drove higher. In his head he carried a map of Dorset and turned on to the tarred drive leading to Sterndale Manor. In the distance they saw arc lights shining on the wreckage. Policemen in uniform were moving about and a crane on the back of a small lorry was lifting something out of the carnage. Tweed slowed down as a policeman stood on the drive, hand held up.

'So that's your friend.' said Paula.

Behind the policeman Buchanan had appeared. He came up to the car and Tweed prepared for an argument. Instead, Buchanan looked at both of them and smiled cynically.

'As usual, your timing is perfect. Now you're here you might as well see.'

'See what?' asked Tweed, getting out of the car with Paula.

'The crane. What it's holding in its grab. The old General's safe. The trouble is the heat burst open the door a crack so everything inside will be burnt to ashes…'

A strong wind was blowing along the valley direct off the sea. They watched as the safe was lowered to the ground. Immediately a squad of men erected round it a large high canvas screen with a roof to ward off the wind.

'They're well organized.' Paula whispered.

'Buchanan always is.' Tweed replied.

He had just spoken when the Chief Inspector beckoned to them and they followed him inside the canvas tent as a policeman lifted a flap, closed it behind them. Buchanan put on a pair of asbestos gloves and carefully lifted the door open. Inside was a mess of black ashes. Nothing had survived.

'We'll send them to the experts.' Buchanan remarked, 'but I'm not hopeful we'll ever detect what was inside the safe.'

'Maybe I could help?' Tweed suggested. 'My people have been working on a very advanced technique for detecting what was written or typed on papers burnt to ashes. They've had a lot of success.'

'Really?' Buchanan thought about it as Sergeant Warden entered the tent. 'Then supposing I do give you a sample and you crack it? As a quid pro quo would you explain the technique to us?'

'Agreed.'

Buchanan carefully used a scoop to extract some of the ash, putting it into a samples bag Warden handed him and sealing it. Warden gave him a larger bag and Buchanan put the smaller one inside it, sealed the larger bag. He handed it to Tweed.

'That would be safer inside my shoulder bag.' Paula suggested.

'Here it is, then.'

Emerging from the tent Tweed and Paula, with Buchanan standing beside them, gazed at the wreckage. One chimney stack had survived and was surrounded with barbed wire. Buchanan pointed to it.

'Unstable. It will have to come down.'

'What a lot of history we're gazing it.' Paula said. 'Generations, some of whom probably feuded with each other. The end of an era.'

'It was very professional.' Buchanan informed Tweed. 'We know now that not only was petrol used but that it was backed up with thermite bombs. Ruthless.'

'I'll keep in touch.' said Tweed, 'whatever the outcome of our experiments. It may take a few days.'

'Is that all?' Buchanan sounded surprised. 'Maybe you are on to something…'

Tweed was driving off South Street, entering the Georgian square where the short lane led off it down to the Priory, when a parked car flashed its lights at him twice. He stopped. Paula produced her Browning automatic, touched Tweed's sleeve with her left hand.

'Be careful. There's no one else about. And this place is dark.'

Which was true. It was dimly illuminated with lanterns suspended from wall brackets.

A slim figure emerged from the car, which Tweed now saw was a Rover. He recognized Keith Kent, dressed in his suede jacket and well-creased grey slacks. He had his window lowered as Kent peered in, nodded to Paula.

'A word in your shell-like ear,' he said to Tweed.

'Shall I take the wheel and drive on to the Priory?' Paula suggested, relieved that it was Kent.

'Not necessary, my dear,' Kent assured her. He smiled. Because, unlike Franklin, he only smiled occasionally, when he did he gave the impression he genuinely liked someone. 'I'm sure you know at least as much as Tweed about what is going on.'

'We'll get out and wander round the square with you,' Tweed decided.

'Good idea. I prefer the three of us on our own. I phoned the Priory from a box in South Street. They told me you were still not back so I waited here. I've seen Bob Newman come back in that old Merc of his. A little while afterwards that chap Franklin returned with the girl, Eve Warner, and Philip Cardon in the back.'

It was eerily quiet as they walked over the cobbles round the deserted square. Tweed waited for Kent to speak.

'This investigation of Leopold Brazil you asked me to undertake. I could start in London – he has a place in the City. But my instincts tell me to fly over to either Paris or Geneva.'

'Geneva,' Tweed said.

'You'd like any other information I can pick up concerning Brazil? Apart from where he's been getting funds from, I mean?'

'Every crumb would be useful. You have carte blanche.'

Kent paused under a lantern, cocked his head on one side, a mannerism Paula had noticed when he was concentrating on every word.

'Carte blanche.' Kent repeated. 'That can be an extremely expensive item on the menu.'

'Spend what you have to.' Tweed said as they resumed walking. 'By the way, have you ever heard of a man called Marchat?'

'No, I haven't.' Kent said promptly.

A shade too promptly, Paula thought. And he was the first person who hadn't asked how it was spelt.

'Should I have heard of this character?' he enquired.

'I'd have been surprised if you had. I should tell you that Franklin runs a small chain of detective agencies, one in Geneva. The firm is called Illuminations. I'm telling you so you don't stumble over each other. He's also probably going to be checking out Brazil although I haven't asked him yet.'

'Will he know I'm investigating the same target?'

'No.' said Tweed. 'If he did it could become a muddle – and he'll be going about his enquiries in a different way from you. He hasn't your financial expertise.'

'So I know about him but he won't know about me?' Kent emphasized.