Rhinoceros (8 page)

'Girl with red 'air?'

'That's what I said,' snarled Eyebrows. 'Stop repeat
ing what I've just said and answer the question, you
louse.'

'Girl with red 'air,' the tramp said again. 'I've three
wimin down 'ere. Two brunettes and a blonde. Don't think you're going to share. Come down 'ere and I'll
smash your face in with this.'

Demonstrating his threat, he took hold of the bottle by the neck. Grim-faced, he hoisted the bottle and waved it slowly backwards and forwards. He stood up, continuing
to wave his weapon.

'I'll go down there and slice his gizzard, Barton,' a
sinister voice said from above.

Tanko, you'll shut your cakehole. He's just an old
drunk. We're wasting time. Get movin' now . . .'

With a sigh of relief, Lisa heard the clumping of feet
walking away further along the pavement. And now she
knew their names. Barton, Panko. The second name
sounded Balkan. She had noticed his strange accent when
he'd spoken. The tramp pointed a finger at her.

'Stay where you are. I'll make sure the rubbish 'as
gone.'

He was absent for longer than she'd expected. She wondered whether he'd gone off to find another
suitable
hidey-hole to doss down. Then he reappeared, staggering
a little as he came down the steps.

'Rubbish 'as gone. Went up Gower Street. Best go other
way. Sorry about the stink in there.'

'I'm so very grateful to you. Heaven knows what you've
saved me from.'

She had emerged from the alcove, was standing up.
She reached for her purse, uncertain whether he'd resent
payment. He seemed to read her mind. From under his
shabby coat he produced a wallet fat with banknotes,
showed it to her.

'I'm all right. Works the dustcarts. Odd way to earn me
livin' but the money's good. Off you go . . .'

She threw him a kiss, climbed the steps, checked to her left, saw no one and hurried in the other direction.
In Tottenham Court Road she flagged down a cab.

'Reefers Wharf in the East End. You know it?'

'Don't often go down there. Course I know it. I did the knowledge . . .'

Less than an hour later she paid the fare, then started
walking. She thought it wiser if the cabbie didn't know where she was going. It was market day. The wide street
was littered with stalls, men crying out their wares. Wear
ing a camel-hair coat over her trouser suit she became
a target.

'Oi! Lady, we're givin' it away. It's April Fool's Day and
I'm the. fool. . .'

She hurried on until she saw the sign above the ancient
pub. The Hangman's Noose. She pushed open the door
and several sellers from the market were seated, drinking
beer. Behind the bar a man saw her, gestured for her to
move to a quiet end of the bar.

'Herb,' she said, keeping her voice down, 'I need a room. I haven't slept properly for twenty-four hours. Thugs have
chased me. I gave them the slip.'

'Room Three. It's at the back.' He reached under the
bar, surreptitiously handed her a key. 'Up the stairs and
straight down the corridor. You get more beautiful each
day, but you look all in. Have you eaten?'

'No, I haven't.'

'Thought not. Would 'am and eggs do?'

'I'm salivating. But there's a problem. I've left my case
in at Waterloo. I have the receipt. . .'

'Give me it. Bert will drive there in my car. Be back here
in no time.' She handed him the receipt, which disap
peared inside his apron pocket. 'Give me a buzz on the
phone when you're ready for the food.'

'Thanks, Herb. I could do with a shower first.'

'Room Three has all mod. cons. Bert will be back
with your case in a couple of hours.' He leaned forward,
whispering. 'No messages from Rhinoceros, whoever he
may be, wherever he may be.'

'He's abroad. A very powerful man. I've never seen him
and I've no idea where he is. Or who he is.'

Newman and Paula followed Tweed into his office. Newman
waved a warning finger at Monica, gestured towards
Tweed who had taken off his coat and settled behind
his desk.

'Don't talk to him. All the way back from Eaton Square
he hasn't said a word.'

'I have to tell him something,' she protested. 'Professor
Saafeld's report with copies are in that
envelope on his desk. Plus his own report which I've typed.'

'Thank you, Monica,' Tweed said quietly and opened both envelopes. 'Now let me see what he says about the autopsy.'

'And, Paula,' Monica went on, 'that sealed yellow envelope on your desk is from Art Baldwin. It's the photos you
took of Eagle's Nest on the Downs. Art insisted he had to
be present when you opened it.'

'He's a boffin,' said Newman. 'Like all scientific types he has tunnel vision. Nothing exists outside his world.'

'Not yet,' Tweed ordered. 'I've almost finished both
reports and you'd better know what they contain . . .'

Not for the first time Paula marvelled at Tweed's agile
brain. Besides having total recall of conversations and a first-class memory, he was also a speed-reader. He pushed
aside the reports, took off his glasses, cleaned them on a
new handkerchief, perched them back on his nose.

'Saafeld's report is damning,' he began. 'An open-and-
shut case of murder regarding Jeremy Mordaunt. Which
links up with my own conclusions. Monica, take a copy of each report, put them in an envelope addressed "Personal,
for attention Gavin Thunder", send them at once to the
Ministry by courier.'

'The Minister will explode,' Paula commented. 'I gather
he was so determined it should be suicide.'

'Can't be helped,' Tweed replied as Monica collected
copies off his desk. 'Now, our visit to Eaton Square.
Anyone suspect something was wrong when we were inside
the drawing room?'

'I did,' Paula replied. 'She didn't know where the drinking glasses were kept. Went to the wrong cupboard. When we got there she'd been drinking vile sherry out of a water glass. Clearly, after she'd arrived she couldn't be bothered
to look for the right glass so she grabbed one from the
kitchen. On our way out she chose the wrong key to open
the front door. Then the furnishings of the room didn't fit
her personality.'

'Very good. What was that question you asked her about
a pet name for Jeremy?'

'I thought I might throw her off balance - and I did.
I'd given her the impression we knew the pet name. She
couldn't answer me.'

'Then we meet the haughty lady who lives there and she
confirms our suspicions - although we'd already spotted
the so-called Mrs Mordaunt was a fake.'

'Why would someone send her to impersonate Mrs Mordaunt?'

'Presumably,' Tweed speculated, 'someone guessed I would think of visiting Mrs Mordaunt. So they replaced
her with a woman who would give me all the right answers.
Building up the idea that Jeremy had reasons to commit
suicide.' He blinked. 'And that could be the same someone
who arranged for me to be killed. No, it couldn't be the
same person. If they thought I'd be dead the charade of
creating a fake Mrs Mordaunt would be pointless. I'm
missing something here.'

'So where is the real Mrs Mordaunt?'

'That mystery worries me a great deal. I think I'd better
call Roy Buchanan and ask him to start a
search for her.
Now . . .'

He was on the phone when Harry Butler came in. In his
large fist he held a folded sheet of paper.
He sat down while
Tweed spoke to Buchanan.

'What's that piece of paper you're holding?' asked Paula,
as curious as a cat.

'Wait. Then you'll see.'

He handed the sheet to Tweed the moment he fin
ished his call. Sitting upright, he spoke as Tweed opened
the sheet.

'Remember that chopper that followed us back from Alfriston? It did look to me as if it had taken off from Lord Barford's estate.'

'How high would you say it was when you saw it?'

'At a guess, about a thousand feet.'

'Was it gaining height?' Tweed persisted.

'No, cruising along.'

'Then it could easily have been the chopper we saw
grounded at Rondel's place.'

'If you'd read my report. Just extracts from the file we
have on Lord Barford.'

Tweed, surprised that Harry should have thought of checking the file, read the short report twice. Then he leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was frowning.

'That was clever of you, Harry,' he said eventually. 'You left out that, after leaving the Army, Bernard Barford was
chief of Special Branch for a while.'

'Didn't seem relevant.'

'I agree. What is relevant is that he owns a Sikorsky
helicopter, commutes to London in it. Must have a pilot
- I know he's never flown a plane in his life.'

He looked at Paula. She told him Monica had typed the
report. He transferred his gaze to Newman.

'That means,' Newman remarked, 'we don't know
which chopper tailed us to London, doubtless reporting
our whereabouts - so that gunman could be waiting
for us.'

'I could get Art Baldwin up here,' Paula suggested.
'Then we can open his envelope of pics, the ones I took.
He'll go mad if I open it before he's with us.'

'Heaven save us from boffins,' Newman snapped.
'Although I will admit Art is undoubtedly the best inter
preter of photos in the country.'

Tweed nodded to Monica, who phoned for Baldwin to
come up. Within a minute there was a gentle tapping on the door. Tweed called out, 'Come in.' The door opened
and a small man whose face vaguely resembled a squirrel's
crept in. He wore thick-lensed glasses. Paula smiled and
waved for him to come over. As she was opening the large
envelope, Art spoke in a squeaky voice.

'I've printed the photos you took in Sussex. Original size
and various enlargements.' He took a
folding magnifying glass from his pocket. 'Very intriguing. I have comments.'

Everyone in the office, except Monica, got up, gathered
round Paula's desk. She spread out the prints. She had
used the new camera, invented by the basement boffins. At
night it took very clear pictures without needing a flash.