By Stealth (23 page)

`I've had a shock. You'll never guess who is travelling with us. In Economy.'

`You know I don't like guessing.'

`Willie Fanshawe, Brigadier Burgoyne, and Helen Claybourne. Helen has the window seat. Willie is next to her. The Brig. is across in the next aisle seat — like Newman with you. Willie was leaning over, chatting to Burgoyne.'

Did any of them see you?' Tweed enquired.

`No. I'm certain of it.'

`Any sign of Lee Holmes?'

`Absolutely not. And Economy is full up.'

`Maybe she caught an earlier flight to Brussels. I find it significant — the absence of Lee.'

`In what way?'

Tweed ignored her question. Taking off his glasses he began to clean them on his handkerchief, which meant his mind was racing. He asked her the question as he put on his glasses.

`You never got a chance to give me your impressions of the relationships between Burgoyne and Holmes and between Willie and Helen. Now might be a good time.'

`At first I made the obvious assumption — both men had their mistress living with them. Nothing odd about that. Then it did become odd. I decided I was wrong. Perhaps only another woman would sense it. The lack of little things indicating intimacy. Before we left each house I was convinced my first impressions had been wildly off the mark.'

`So what is the relationship?'

`Odd, as I said. Both women obviously manage house and do the normal jobs wives would do — or some mistresses...'

`You're becoming as cynical as me.'

`Let me go on. I had the strongest feeling both women are working for the men in some professional capacity. It's a business relationship, if you like.'

`Anything else?'

`Yes. Lee has to handle Burgoyne with kid gloves. Basically he's still the Brigadier, accustomed to giving orders and expecting instant obedience. With Helen I had the opposite impression. Willie is an amiable soul — has all his marbles though. But Helen is calling the shots.'

`I find your conclusions illuminating. Thank you.'

`Good. Glad to be of service,' she said ironically. Her tone changed. 'You look worried.'

`I am wondering how many more have to die before we bring this business to a climax. So far the body count is three, probably four. Harvey Boyd, Irene Andover, Hilary Vane — and I doubt whether we'll ever find Mrs Garnett of Moor's Landing alive.'

`You seem to be in a great rush to reach Brussels. What do you expect us to find there?'

`My worst fears confirmed.'

`I don't understand,' said Paula.

`You think it's a coincidence that Dr Wand is leaving for Brussels aboard that Lear jet? You think it's another coincidence that Burgoyne, Willie, and Helen are on board this plane?'

`Do you? It does seem strange.'

`I never believe in coincidences,' Tweed replied grimly. `And your remark about your worst fears?'

`I forgot to tell you I called Benoit, stopped him meeting our plane. It could be dangerous to be seen with him. After dumping our bags at the Hilton we're driving straight to Grand' Place — to police headquarters to meet Benoit there. Newman has phoned ahead for a hire car to be waiting for us.'

`You saw Marler go up to the stewardess yet again? My bet is he's had the pilot radio ahead also for a hire car.' `Probably. He knows what he's doing.'

`And you're not going to tell me about your worst fears?' she persisted.

'I'm certain we're involved in a race against time. The problem is very simple. Who will reach Gaston Delvaux first — while he's still alive?'

17

They were the first off the plane at Zaventem Airport. It was Tweed who led the headlong rush, with Paula and Newman hurrying to keep up with him. Through Passport Control they carried their only bags, the ones they'd taken aboard the aircraft. Newman caught up with Tweed.

`Why the mad scramble?'

`Change of plan. You know where to pick up that car you phoned ahead for in London? Good. Forget the Hilton — drive us straight to police headquarters off Grand' Place. I must check the situation with Benoit, then we race to Liège — to Herstal. To Delvaux's château. Not a minute to lose..

His unusual urgency conveyed itself to the other two. A cool, fast-walking Paula checked her watch. It would be dark when they arrived in Liêge. Running outside the airport, Newman swore under his breath. The hire car waiting for them was a red Mercedes. Too conspicuous. It couldn't be helped. He hustled through the formalities with the car-hire girl, accepted the keys, told her to wait while he tested the engine.

`Get in,' Tweed said impatiently.

`You might have warned me it was going to be a marathon,' Paula remarked as she dived into the rear.

`I only decided this would save time when the plane was descending. And we lost time droning round in that holding pattern. All right, Bob?'

`Engine seems OK. We're off. Grand' Place and Benoit, here we come...'

Paula groaned inwardly as they drove into Brussels, the most muddled and depressing city in Europe. Like Los
 
Angeles, a series of districts in search of a centre. And the fog which had delayed them was drifting in smoke-like trails in the busy streets.

Tall concrete blocks rose everywhere, interspersed with small, shabby, two-storey buildings — centuries old, paint peeling — cafés, bars, and shops illuminated with tasteless neon. Street skiving off in all directions. Drivers of cars jousting for the only available slot left in the middle of a wide boulevard.

The pavements — ankle-breakers — were crowded with Belgian housewives hurrying for metro entrances. The home of the EC commissioners hadn't changed. A worthy home for those fat, well-fed, and over-paid bureaucrats, she thought. The whole place was like a disturbed anthill.

Newman was driving ruthlessly, at high speed, overtaking. Belgian motorists blared their horns as they had to pull up suddenly to let him through. He's exceeding the speed limit, Paula observed to herself. Tweed's burst of nervous energy had transmitted itself to Newman's wild driving.

They pulled up outside a building off Grand' Place, which was barred to traffic with frontier-like poles. One of the truly ancient sections of Brussels, Grand' Place was surrounded with medieval buildings. Newman parked in a no-parking zone, took out a pad of stickers, wrote 'Police HQ' on one, attached it to the windscreen.

Tweed, already outside on the pavement, glanced at the sticker, called out to Newman.

`It's
Politie
here. You should have remembered that.'

Newman scribbled a new sticker. Removing the previous one, he attached the new version, jumped out of the car, locked it, and followed the others. Tweed and Paula were already inside the building.

`Chief Inspector Benoit is expecting us. An emergency. Every second counts..

Tweed had addressed the uniformed desk sergeant in French. He dropped his card in front of the man, a card which gave his name and the fake cover company.

Chief Inspector Benoit appeared almost at once, running agilely down the stairs. He greeted Paula first, hugging her. 'Welcome to Brussels.'

She felt glad she was wearing a smart outfit. Under her open trench coat she was clad in a high-necked white blouse, navy blue jacket, and pleated skirt. Tweed was moving restlessly, a reaction which did not escape the Belgian.

Chief Inspector Benoit, the shrewdest policeman in Belgium, was a jovial portly man in his forties. He had a great, beaked nose, light brown hair, and quick-moving eyes. He ushered them upstairs to his office on the first floor.

`We have to reach Liège very urgently. Precisely, Gaston Delvaux's château at Herstal. We've come straight here from the airport. The Hilton can wait,' Tweed said.

`I'll phone them, book you accommodation. Executive rooms on the twentieth floor, if I remember. Now, Liège. I rather expected this. You must go by train from Midi...' He checked his watch. 'You just have time to catch the express from Ostend going through to Cologne. Only one stop. At Louvain.'

`Surely by car—' Tweed began.

Benoit shook his head. 'With the traffic at this time of day? No, the train. I will try and get there by car to meet your train at Liège, but cannot guarantee I will make it, even with sirens and flashing lights.'

`You said Delvaux had banned police coming near him,' Tweed objected.

`True. I have unmarked cars waiting. There will be a silent approach as we come close to the château. We will wait a short distance away.' He raised a hand. 'I insist. My territory. You could be in great danger. Which reminds me. You just have time...'

He took them into another room. One glance at the weapons laid out on a table, with ammo, confirmed to Newman what a remarkable memory the police chief had. Paula picked up a.32 Browning automatic, some ammo. She was checking the gun when Benoit spoke.

`Empty. Your favourite gun. Made in Herstal. Although today our armaments industry at Herstal hardly exists any more. The collapse of the Soviet Union and other factors.'

Paula was loading the Browning as Newman picked up a Smith & Wesson.38 Special. Alongside the ammo was a hip holster. Benoit never forgot a thing. Taking off his trench coat and jacket, Newman slipped on the holster, checked the mechanism of the gun, loaded it, put extra ammo in his coat packet. That left a 7.65mm. Walther automatic on the table. Benoit looked at Tweed, who shook his head.

`I hardly ever carry a gun.'

`Now for the perishing paperwork,' Benoit continued as he produced two forms which already had details typed in. 'Paula, Newman, sign these. They are permits for you to carry those weapons. Now it is all legal.'

`Benoit,' Tweed said, after checking his watch, 'we will have to buy tickets for Liège before we board that express.'

Benoit produced his wallet, extracted six slips of paper. He handed two to each of them.

`First-class return tickets to Liège. I will drive you to Midi station. Then with a team I will drive on to Liège, hoping to meet you at the station. It is quite a gamble...'

`I'm leaving now,' Newman broke in. 'I've got a Merc. outside. I think I can make it by road before Paula and Tweed reach Liège. Along the motorway. See you two...'

He was gone before anyone could protest. Benoit threw up his hands in mock horror, then ran to the window. Peering down, he took out a pad, made a note.

`I have his registration number. I'll leave instructions to be radioed along his route. To all patrol cars. That Merc. to be permitted to proceed at all costs. Now, we leave for Midi station …'

Tweed and Paula had a first-class compartment to themselves as the express raced eastward well beyond the Brussels suburbs. To Paula's surprise it was still daylight and the fog had gone. They were crossing open countryside and carefully ploughed fields stretched away on both sides. The bread-basket of Belgium. Here and there a dense copse of pine trees reared up. They passed isolated villages with neat rows of old brick-built terrace houses with steep-pitched roofs. In the distance the occasional church spire pointed skywards like a needle. Which prompted Paula's remark.

`I've been thinking about Hilary Vane — how she was murdered at Heathrow. It looked to me as though she was injected with cyanide. Her lips were blue.'

`Undoubtedly,' Tweed agreed. 'Cyanosis was pretty obvious. Her whole face was beginning to turn blue.'

'I was also wondering how the murder was achieved. In a busy airport you can't really produce a hypodermic needle and jab it into somebody. The location was too public.'

`What solution have you arrived at, then?'

`A hypodermic needle disguised as something else. Something very ordinary which no one would think odd a woman holding it in her hand.'

`Sound thinking. The same thought crossed my mind.' `What about Dr Rabin?' Paula asked. 'Has he told you anything?'

`You know what pathologists are. Won't commit themselves until they've gone through the whole process. He said he would have information for me by the time I got back to London.'

`That place we stopped at was Leuven, I noticed.'

`Which means a Flemish enclave,' Tweed commented. `Benoit said Louvain, the French — or Walloon-version. It's a real mix-up, is Belgium — which is why the road signs in Brussels are always first in French, then in Flemish. I think we're coming in to Liège.'