Cross of Fire (62 page)

'Bob. Thank heaven. She's dead, isn't she?'

Even as she spoke she heard herself and thought it was a stupid question. The ugly bruisings and swellings on Jean Burgoyne's neck had been only too apparent in the beam of her torch. She turned to follow Butler and Newman stopped her.

'Wait here. Don't move an inch.'

'She was going to give me some valuable papers.'

'I told you not to move one inch. Pete is back-up at the other end of the verandah.'

Newman joined Butler, treading over the spongy grass. He bent alongside the other man. It was an ugly spectacle.
Burgoyne's eyes were starting out of her head. Her throat
was a brutalized mess. Mangled. But her mane of blond hair
was still beautiful. Pathetic was the word which occurred to Newman.

The bottom of her sheepskin had been ripped open, a
button torn away. Gently he lifted the coat higher, exposing
her skirt, which had also been thrust up in her struggle for
life. Something was protruding below her panties. Delicately
he lifted the panties higher up her long slim leg. A poly
thene envelope was attached to her body with sticking
plaster.
You're not supposed to fiddle around with a murder
victim, he thought. He pulled at the tape, released the
polythene envelope, pulled down her panties.

'I think the killer heard us coming,' he called up as he approached Paula, his tone matter-of-fact. 'So he failed in
his search. She may not have died in vain.'

Putting arm round her, he led her back along the verandah. She walked like a zombie, remembered she was still
holding the Browning. She slipped it back inside her
shoulder bag. He kept his arm round her as she descended
the steps, walked back to the car. Beyond, Newman's own Renault was parked.

'I'm all right.' she said as they reached the car.

'You're damn well not.'

'No, I'm not! Oh, Bob, it was just like Karin at Aldeburgh.
She was found strangled. She was left like some unwanted child's doll in an old boat. It's exactly the same nightmare all over again. If ever we find out who did these things I'll shoot him myself. I'll empty my whole bloody gun into his guts...'

Then, as Newman was hoping, she broke. Sobbing, she
buried her head against his chest. He clasped his arms
round her, hugged her to him, stroked the back of her neck, her hair. Gradually the shuddering left her body. Butler and
Nield had tactfully stayed at a distance, both with guns in
their hands, both surveying their surroundings. Paula
tugged the handkerchief out of her shoulder bag, dried her eyes, looked up at Newman.

'I don't care what her relationship with de Forge was -
she was a good woman. I was beginning to like her very
much. I suspect she was very brave, that she had been
spying on that swine.'

'You could be right.' Newman held up the envelope. 'We
can look at this when we are well away from here. There
could be reinforcements. And we don't want the locals in
on this.'

'Legally, I suppose...'

'Damn the law. De Forge is the law here. This is a job for
Lasalle. I'm phoning him from the hotel. And I'm getting
you well clear of this area.'

Paula had recovered, was standing away from him, tidying up her coat. She shook her head.

'I'm not leaving here until Tweed orders me out. I came
to do a job. Jean's dead, but I'm alive.'

'I'd like to keep it that way.' Newman told her and led her to his Renault.

*

'How on earth did you happen to turn up when you did?'
Paula asked.

They were driving back to Arcachon with Butler and
Nield in the other car close behind. Newman was moving
fast as he explained.

'When Moshe and I arrived from the Landes we flopped
out in the Atlantique for twenty-four hours. You were out when I surfaced. I decided to visit Isabelle, which I did. I was just arriving back at the Atlantique when I saw you
diving into a car and driving off like a bat out of hell. I
decided to follow to see what was up.'

'You saw. I hate leaving Jean like that. Seems awful.'

'So what was the alternative? We take the body away
and then what? Inform the local gendarmes and we're up to our neck in trouble. Worse still, we could be immobilized. You think Tweed would like that - just when France is
exploding? Now there have been anti-American and anti-
Arab riots in Marseilles. It's spreading.'

'How do you know that?'

'Isabelle has been listening to the radio, watching TV. She
said there have been a lot of casualties. And our old friends, the Balaclava mob egging things on.'

'You mentioned the Landes. How did you get on there?'

'Talk about that later.' Newman said grimly. 'Now I just hope we can reach Tweed and Lasalle. De Forge's world is closing in on us.'

In Paris, Tweed had experienced a disturbing evening. The
courier Monica had sent with his forged press card had
arrived. Lasalle had told him Josette de Forge was holding one of her 'salons' starting at eight o'clock.

Arriving by cab in Passy, Tweed had told the driver to
drop him a few doors from the address he was making for.

As he walked up to the elegant terrace house facing a small
park he saw limousines pulling up, disgorging the guests.
Among them he recognized Louis Janin, Minister of Defence
and catspaw of General de Forge. The flunkey at the door asked him if he had an invitation.

'Press.' said Tweed. 'Tell Madame de Forge I'm from the
Daily World.
And hurry it up. It's cold out here. If you're not
back in three minutes I won't be here. But I'll make a phone
call to Madame tomorrow - and I doubt whether you'll be on the staff any more. My card ...'

As he waited other guests arrived in limousines, all
wearing evening dress. Some of the women sported a for
tune in jewels. Tweed, in his neat business suit, felt quite at ease. Why should he dress up for this nest of vipers?

The flunkey returned, hurrying, his manner very differ
ent. He ushered Tweed inside, took his coat, led the way
across the red carpeted hall into a large room crammed with guests.
The room was tastefully furnished and illuminated with glittering chandeliers. There were pictures on the wall
and Tweed thought one was a Gauguin.

The flunkey had to edge his way through the chattering throng, their babble punctuated by the clink of champagne glasses. Tweed noticed a full general in uniform. Masson, Army Chief of Staff. He shouldn't have attended. Then he was ushered into the presence.

Josette de Forge was a tall, slim woman clad in a black velvet dress which showed to advantage her superb figure. A commanding woman who was also chic, her long sleek black hair was tied in a chignon. The dress was low-cut, exposing her excellent shoulders and held up more by hope .than by gravity. Her dark eyes surveyed Tweed as she held his card and he quickly realized she was putting herself out to charm him.

'The
Daily World,
Mr Prentice. You are most welcome to
my little salon. Champagne?' She summoned a waiter and
Tweed reluctantly took a glass. 'Come and sit with me so
we can talk.' she continued in English. 'All these people. It really is simply too dreadful. But you ask one, you have to
ask so many others. They so easily take offence if not
invited...'

As she prattled on she led him to an elegant couch next
to the wall, waved a hand for him to join her, sat down
crossing her long legs which were revealed by a deep slit in the dress. Tweed made a point of noticing them: he felt sure it was expected. He replied in English, concealing the fact that he spoke fluent French.

'You have a very distinguished gathering here, including General Masson. He gives you moral support in the present
crisis?'

'It really is most intriguing, Mr Prentice, that now the
British press is beginning to take an interest in France. Soon
Paris will once again become the capital of Europe as it was in the time of Napoleon.'

'What about Germany?'

'They respect power.' She made a dismissive gesture with
her free well-shaped hand. 'And soon we shall be recog
nized as the superpower of Europe. After all -' she sipped
at her champagne - 'we have the
force de frappe,
atomic
weapons. There is General Lapointe over there, commander of the force.'

The eagles gather, Tweed thought, turning to look at the
uniformed general she had indicated. Of medium height,
slim, with a neat small black moustache, he was listening
to a blonde beauty who gazed up at him with adoring
eyes.

'He has divorced his wife,' Josette went on, 'so Lisette is
hopeful. He may bed her but she will not become his second
consort.'

'I gather Prime Minister Navarre has other ideas - that
he approves close co-operation with the new Germany.'

'Navarre!
Pouf!'
She blew him into the wind. 'He will not
last long once my husband arrives in Paris.'

'You are expecting him? With an army, you mean?'

Her magnetic black eyes narrowed. She studied Tweed before she replied. Then she looked round the room and her full red lips made a moue.

'We can't talk properly in this dreadful bedlam. Come
with me. They'll have to do without me for a while.'

She made it sound like a deprivation as Tweed stopped
a waiter topping up his drink and followed her. Opening a
side door she went through into a smaller room which was mostly furnished with
chaise longues
wide enough to take
two people lying down. Locking the door, she led the way
to a
chaise longue
against the wall. As she arranged herself on it she patted it.

'Come and sit close to me so we can put the world right.'

Tweed perched on the edge, turned to face her while she
lounged against the headrest. He took out a compact tape
recorder from his pocket, placed it on a small coffee table,
pressed the start button and there was a whirring sound.

'I hope you don't mind,' he suggested.

She reached forward, used her pink-varnished index
finger to press the stop button. The whirring sound ceased.
She smiled languidly, her bare arms clasped behind her
swan-like neck.

'You might not want a recording of all we say to each
other. In any case, I don't like those machines.'

'As you wish.' He took out a notebook and pen. 'You
won't mind if I make notes? Good. Perhaps you'd say again what you told me in the other room? I couldn't catch all you did say,' he lied.

'Of course...' She repeated what she had said, drawing
up her knees and leaning on them as she watched him.

Her movement again exposed her long legs. Tweed scrib
bled as she spoke.