The Cauldron (12 page)

Newman's manner had suddenly become more distant. He had never liked women who approached him openly. His response threw her off balance. Looking at her, he could see how men would find her attractive -she exuded allure. Not a word he preferred but it seemed to fit. She choked down the rest of her drink, looked at him, smiled warmly.

'Could I have another?'

'Of course.'

He gestured to the waiter, ordered more drinks, including a Scotch for himself, this time a double without water. Newman was very good at pretending to be slightly drunk while his brain was still in high gear. He had fooled a lot of people with the tactic. He asked the question quickly before she recovered her poise.

'You didn't answer my question - where do you travel to with this anonymous industrialist?'

'All over the place.' She paused and Newman read her mind. She was trying to decide whether to be more frank. A minute later she went on. "The main destination,' she said with an air of defiance, 'is California. Near San Francisco...'

'Go there often? Spend a lot of time there?'

'So, so. Yes!' Her eyes flashed. He'd got under her skin and there was a trace of arrogance. 'I do spend quite a bit of time in California. That's because my boss does. I enjoy travel...'

'So your boss is an American?'

'I didn't say that. Candidly, I'm not sure where the hell he came from, nor do I care. As I told you, the pay is good. Is that enough background information for you, Bob? Oh, goody, here are the drinks.'

She swallowed half her Martini, paused then drank more. Newman had noticed at dinner that she had a large capacity for liquor. He drank his Scotch quickly, then ordered a repeat of the drinks without consulting her. Vanity recrossed her legs, leaned closer.

'I like generous men.'

'I imagine you've met a lot of them.'

He was lisping a trifle as he spoke, giving the impression the liquor was starting to take effect on him.

'What the devil does that mean?' she demanded coldly.

'Shimply that an attractive woman like you is bound to have well-off men after you. Makes sense, I'd have thought.'

'Oh, I see what you mean. That's quite a compliment, Bob.'

'Not really, just stating a fact.'

The third round of drinks had been served. They were consuming them when Tweed appeared, walking into the lounge, sat down with his back to them and started reading a magazine explaining the delights of Cornwall. Newman knew that although he wasn't close he could hear every word. Vanity took no notice of him.

'What do you do with your life, Bob?' she continued. 'Are you married?'

'I was once.' Newman's expression became grim. 'My wife was murdered horribly in the Baltic area. I hunted down the killer.'

'I'm so sorry I raised the subject.' Her hand rested on his leg. 'What happened to the killer? Or maybe you'd sooner not talk about it.'

'He fell over a cliff.'

Newman drank more whisky, occasionally slurring his words. His mind was still quite clear. Vanity changed the subject.

'So what do you do, Bob? I'm sure a man like you couldn't just sit around all day.'

'Now and then I contribute articles to certain international papers and magazines - under a different name.' he lied easily. 'So they involve making trips abroad to find out what is really going on.'

'You're a wanderer.'

'You could call me that.' He laughed. 'I wander into the strangest of places. Like here. You must have noticed that huge luxurious yacht standing off Falmouth harbour. It even has a helipad with a chopper sitting on it. Someone told me the owner was a man called Vincent Bernard Moloch.'

He was watching Vanity closely now. Her face froze for a moment, then she dived inside her Hermes handbag, brought out a tiny lace-edged handkerchief. Hermes, Newman was thinking. I'll bet that little item cost not a penny less than five thousand pounds. Her boss pays her very well for her services, whatever they might be.

'How did you find that out?' she asked.

Wrong question, Newman was thinking, but nothing showed of his reaction.

'A chap in a pub told me. Half Falmouth seems to know.' he lied again. "They say he's the richest man in the world. With a job like that floating out there he must be.'

"Then, with all your experience of the world, you must know something about this man,' she suggested.

'Not a lot.' He finished his drink. 'In any case he's not news, so I'm not interested. I think they're ready for dinner. Care to join me at my table?'

I'd love that.'

Tweed watched them vanish towards the dining room and smiled to himself. Newman wasn't wasting much time. And he'd handled a tricky situation with his usual skill.

Paula wandered down the staircase, intending to go into dinner. She was wearing an ivory gabardine trouser suit with a cream silk blouse, her latest addition to her wardrobe. The proprietor greeted her cheerfully, commented on how smart she looked. Paula smiled, thanked him, noticed over his shoulder that Vanity Richmond was standing in the entrance, obviously about to go outside for a breath of fresh air.

Vanity was feeling inside her handbag, brought out a compact mobile phone, disappeared round a corner into the courtyard. Paula strolled after her, pausing before she went into the courtyard. Taking a few steps further she saw Vanity huddled against the wall of the building, the mobile phone close to her ear. With her acute sense of hearing Paula could hear every word Vanity said.

'You know who this is, VB. Calling from Nansidwell. I had a long conversation with a one-time foreign correspondent called Robert Newman...

'What was that you said? Yes, Newman is staying here. No, I have no reason to suspect him so far. But he told me half Falmouth knows you're here ...'

'How does he know? He heard someone talking in a pub...

'Did I hear you correctly? You're flying to Newquay on the chopper? Where to? Didn't catch that...

'You're flying on to Heathrow and then to San Francisco in the jet? Surely I should be coming with you...'

'No? Stay here for the moment and check up on what is going on? Make sure a lot of people see me during the -whole evening? Why on earth...'

'None of my business. Sorry...'

'Yes, when you send for me I'll board a flight at Heathrow, phoning you from the airport...'

'OK. Safe flight...'

Paula was walking into the dining room when she saw Vanity reappear at the entrance. In the dining room she was surprised to see Bob Newman sitting at his usual table, but now it was laid for two people. Tweed was occupying a table not far away, already ordering his meal.

Paula was escorted to her own table and sat down in a tense state. The sooner she warned Tweed that Moloch was on his way back to the States the better. The trouble was she couldn't work out a way of telling him in that crowded room without risking being overheard. Writing a message and handing it to one of the serving girls to take to him was equally dangerous.

At that moment Vanity entered the room, walked straight to Newman's table. He stood up, pulled out a chair for her and they were immediately engaged in animated conversation. And now Paula knew the woman was Vanity Richmond. She had the same head of flaming red hair as she'd had when she approached Paula in faraway Monterey. She had been wearing a dark wig -but why had she discarded it?

Paula ordered automatically, her mind racing. Vanity's presence ruled out any chance of her approaching Tweed during dinner. And what about the business of Moloch obviously warning Vanity to be seen during the whole evening? It had a sinister ring which she found disturbing.

Adrian Penkastle rented a tiny one-storey whitewashed cottage at the edge of the creek. Rather the worse for wear after his second bout of drinking at the Yacht Club, he was staggering round his small room, searching in vain for a bottle, when he heard the knock on his door.

'Who the hell can that be at this hour?' he mumbled to himself.

When he eventually managed to unlock the front door he found Joel Brand standing outside. His visitor wore seaman's clothes and a nautical cap pulled well down over his shaggy hair. Joel grinned, waved a bottle of whisky in his gloved hand. He took his gumboots off and entered the house in his socks.

'Got another job for you, Adrian. Big money for this one.'

Joel waved a fistful of twenty-pound notes with his other hand. Penkastle gazed at the money, stood back to let Brand enter. Closing the door, Brand looked round at the primitive furniture which included a large wooden table.

'Let's sit down.' he said cheerfully. 'Bring up a couple of chairs and I'll tell you all about it.'

Penkastle hurried into his minute kitchen-scullery and came back with two greasy glasses. He sat down opposite the big man, who poured a large slug of whisky into his host's glass, then the same amount into his own. Raising his glass, he toasted Penkastle.

'Here's to a long and prosperous life.'

'I'll drink, to that,' Adrian mumbled.

He watched Brand stuff the sheaf of banknotes into one of his pockets. He could only vaguely estimate the amount but it seemed to him Brand was carrying something like five hundred pounds.

'Have a refresher.' Brand urged and poured more whisky into Penkastle's glass. 'You're about to get into the big-time stuff, Adrian. Pays a fortune. In cash, of course.' He winked. 'Don't want the Inland Revenue taking a large cut do we?'

'Prefer cash.'

He stumbled over the first word, drank some more, put down his glass. Brand promptly refilled it. Propping his elbows on the table - Adrian was worried about falling off the chair, which would not make a good impression.

Tell me about the job. What have I to do this time?'

'You know a guy called Maurice Prendergast? Lives on the other side of the creek.'

'Yes.' Adrian replied eagerly. 'I can tell you the name of his house. Place called The Ark.'

'You have to record his every movement. You have a car, haven't you?'

'An old banger, but it goes.'

'Has Prendergast seen it?'

'I'm sure he hasn't.'

"Then if he takes off you can follow him, report his movements.' Brand drank a little more and Adrian took another large gulp. His head was swimming. 'You report who he meets - where and when. Got it?' Brand asked.

'Yes. I'll drive my car round to his side of the creek, park it at the Yacht Club. Then if he drives off I can be after him...'

'We'll also want pictures of him. You can take those, I imagine, from that little boat you use to cross the creek.'

'That's no problem...'

'You'll have to spend a lot of hours on this one. That means keeping a watch on his house at night. He might try to slip away well after dark.'

'I can manage that.'

Take photographs of Prendergast, Adrian was thinking. He had lost his camera in the creek - or rather that clumsy woman had dropped it in the water. But with the money Brand was going to give him he could buy a cheap one - which would leave plenty over for trips to pubs.

'You're not drinking.' Brand observed.

'Down the hatch.'

As Adrian lifted his glass Brand raised his own, stood up, swallowed the contents. He grinned at Penkastle, went round to where he was sitting, put an arm round his shoulder.

'Adrian, stand up. I want to show you something from the door. Something which will help you observe Maurice Prendergast.'

Adrian made a supreme effort. Placing both hands flat on the table, he forced himself upright, turned carefully to follow his guest. Brand lifted his pullover, pulled out a stiletto-like knife, rammed it into Adrian's chest at just the right point, avoiding ribs. He shoved the knife upwards with great force. Adrian opened his mouth, gurgled as Brand, using great strength, managed to haul out the knife. He was helped when Adrian fell backwards, hitting a wooden skirting board with the back of his skull.

'Good riddance to bad rubbish,' Brand said aloud.

He wiped the knife clean on the clothes of the dead form lying at his feet, returned it to the concealed sheath. He picked up his own glass, opened the front door, peered out. No one in sight. He put on his gumboots.

It took him less than a minute to step into the dinghy powered by an outboard, to start the motor. He guided it until he reached the powerboat waiting for him by the bank of the Helford River. Gene, who had loaned him the knife, started up the engine.