Vorpal Blade (19 page)

A few minutes later the copilot emerged. He approached
them and instantly Tweed was alert.

'Mr Tweed?'

'Yes, I am. What can I do to help you?'

Tweed's mood had changed instantly. He was smiling
as he looked up at the copilot bending forward, more than smiling he was positively cordial.

'We have a problem, sir.'

'Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.'

'We've received a garbled radio message from. Washington.
It appears to say that if a Mr Tweed is aboard, the plane
must turn round immediately and return to Boston.
Could be from the Justice Department. There's a lot
of interference over the air but that's the best we could
make of the signal.'

'And you're not sure what course of action to take?'

'Frankly, that's the situation. We have a heavy load. Economy is packed full. In twenty minutes we shall be
more than half way to Heathrow. The captain isn't happy
about turning back.'

'Maybe it would help if I told you I'd been to the States
on a mission.' Tweed produced his SIS folder, handed it
to the copilot. 'And,' he went on, 'before leaving Britain
I was talking to Russell Straub.'

'The Vice-President? Oh, I see.'

'I have a further suggestion as your captain is disinclined to
go all the way back. Wait for half an hour, then send your reply.
Say the message received was garbled, not understood.'

'I think the captain will like that idea.' The copilot had
caught on to Tweed's strategem. 'By the time we get a
reply we'll be well beyond the halfway mark, heading for
Heathrow. He won't turn back then. Thank you, sir. I'll mention the Vice-President to the captain.'

'That was very quick of you,' said Newman when the
copilot had vanished. He checked his watch. 'Let's see if
it works.'

'It was positively brilliant,' commented Paula. 'That bit
about talking to Russell Straub.'

'Rather a short exchange of words,' Tweed remarked,
'but no one can accuse me later of telling a lie.'

Three-quarters of an hour later Newman nudged Tweed,
who again appeared to be sleeping. His eyes opened
instantly.

'We're well over halfway there and the pilot hasn't turned back. It worked.'

'And I can bet where that call originated,' Paula said.
'Jed told us he'd heard Fat Boy Parrish calling his brother in the Justice Department. Reporting our presence nosing
round Pinedale, I'm sure.'

'I think you're right,' Tweed agreed. 'They have given themselves away again. Why would they be so bothered,
so high up, about the murder of Hank Foley? Enormous power is very worried about this case. About the murder
of a caretaker. I ask you. I can almost hear the wires hum
ming between Washington and the American Embassy
in London. Russell Straub is probably staying there, in
Grosvenor Square.'

'And Mr Straub,' Paula reminded him, 'has a large
mansion very close to where that asylum stood.'

'I doubt if he was involved in burning down the place,
but its proximity could be significant in another way.'

'I forgot to tell you,' Paula remembered. 'When Jed
hustled me to the flight at Portland airport I asked him if
they knew where the fire had started. He told me an expert
with the fire team told him it originated in the cellar.'

'Where the patients' records were kept,' Newman recalled.

'What did you think of Millie's strange story?' Paula
pressed.

Tweed was summoning the steward who had served
them their excellent dinner earlier.
The man came run
ning.

'Have you, please, a pad I could write a radio message
on?' Tweed requested.

It arrived in no time. Tweed began writing carefully in
block letters. When he'd completed his message he folded
it, summoned the steward again, his hand holding a large tip as well as the folded message.

'Could you please send this urgent message now to the
address I've written in London.'

'Certainly, sir. And thank you very much.' 'What was that about?' Paula enquired.
'To cover the possibility that a hostile reception com
mittee may be waiting for us when we reach Heathrow. . .'

'Your party is first off the flight, sir,' the steward informed
Tweed.

The huge machine had made a perfect landing. The
steward led them to the exit. They received curious and
sometimes indignant stares from the other passengers. As
soon as they stepped out Chief Inspector Buchanan, lean
and lanky in his damp overcoat, met them. Behind him stood Jim Corcoran, Chief of Security and a friend of
Tweed's.

'Got your message,' Buchanan said tersely as they
walked up the sloping ramp. 'There are some unpleasant people waiting for you. Passports here.'

An official accepted the passports, glanced at them quickly, returned them and disappeared. Holding on to
Tweed's arm Buchanan continued his explanation.

'We've squared Customs. We bypass them. Have a prof
itable trip? Good. State of siege here as far as you're con
cerned. Howard is repelling an army of bureaucrats. Has an appointment to see the PM within the next few days.'

'I've had bureaucrats up to here,' stormed Tweed. 'Any
of them get in my way and I'll steamroller the swine.'

Paula was startled. She had rarely witnessed Tweed exhibit such rage. She gripped her briefcase, containing
the book from Wychwood Library, tighter. They followed
a complex and strange route along deserted corridors and
suddenly walked out into a cold drizzling night.

'Here's my car,' said Buchanan. 'Jump in quick.'

Newman and Paula occupied the back while Tweed sat next to Buchanan, who was behind the wheel. He had just
started off slowly when a man rushed into the road, held up
both arms. Nathan Morgan in a dark overcoat. Buchanan was compelled to slow, stop.

'I'll deal with him,' Newman called out before Buchanan
could move. 'You may be up against a clash of authority.'

'Nathan, how nice of you to come and—'

Newman was still speaking when he trod with all his
well-built weight on Nathan
Morgan's right foot. Nathan
yelled in agony, bent over, trying to speak but making only a choking sound. A man jumped out of a car parked on the
far side, ran across.

'You one of his?' Newman demanded.

'What happened?' the man asked. 'Yes, I'm on Mr
Morgan's staff.'

'He bumped into me while I was still walking. You'd best
help him into the airport, find somewhere you can sit him
down. Get a move on, you're holding up traffic.'

The aide had his arm round Morgan's shoulder as he
helped his chief, who was now limping badly, towards
the interior concourse. Newman was already back inside
the car.

As they drove closer to Park Crescent through the
traffic Paula found she was hankering for the mysterious
atmosphere of the forests of Maine. She'd forgotten what
a hell London could be as pedestrians in the dark pushed
past people huddled under umbrellas.

As he parked at the kerb of the Crescent Buchanan said
he wouldn't come in. He had two days' work waiting on his
desk. Tweed thanked him for his response to the message
he'd sent from the aircraft over the Atlantic.

'Any time . . .' Buchanan drove off.

Entering Tweed's first-floor office they found not only
Monica behind her desk; Howard, the Director, was seated
in an armchair in his normal posture, one leg looped over
the arm. He was smoking a cigar, a new habit.

Howard was six feet tall, had the plump pink face and the
large body of a man who patronized gourmet restaurants.

Clad in a new grey tailor-made suit, he sported an Hermes
tie, handmade shoes. He stood, hugged Paula, and she
caught the whiff of his aftershave, which was not to her
taste. She thought him pompous with his upper-crust voice
and manners. But in times of crisis he had surprised her
with the full backing he gave Tweed.

'I've been repelling boarders, kept them off the battle
ments,' he informed Tweed, who had taken off his coat,
seated himself behind his desk.

'What kind of boarders?' Tweed enquired.

'Special Branch idiots - and the Home Secretary.'

'He has no authority over us,' Tweed pointed out.

'I told him that in more diplomatic language. I took my
time, knowing how impatient he is. Kept him on the phone for ten minutes while I droned on and on. Saying the same thing in a dozen different ways. Wore him down. Conver
sation ended when he slammed the phone down on me.'

'Good. I don't like him. Sneaky little man.'

'How did your trip to Pinedale go?'

Tersely, but fully, Tweed gave him a complete picture
of their experience in Maine. He quoted what Parrish, Jed
and Millie had said. Howard's expression became grave as
the story unrolled.

'Strange that the Vice-President has a home so close to
the murder scene . . .'

He never finished. The phone had rung. Monica called
out to Howard that there was an urgent call on his line.
He left quickly. Paula sat up straight, staring straight at Tweed.

'Now maybe you'll answer my question.'

'Which one? You ask so many,' Tweed responded with
a smile.

'The one I asked you on the return flight. What do you
think of Millie, the cleaning lady at the asylum?'

'Close your eyes mentally. She gave invaluable infor
mation.' Paula had closed her eyes physically, seeing the
sequence in all its horror described by Tweed. 'The mys
terious patient, Mr Mannix, returned in the limo, came
back to the asylum. Fortunately Millie had run for it by slipping out of the back door, or she might have lost her
own head. It, as you suggested we call the killer, surprises
Hank Foley rifling the records cabinet, maybe with
its
record in his hand. It smashes Foley over the back of
the head with the blunt end of the axe it's carrying. The
body is dragged out and across the slope where Jed found
faint traces of blood. It places the execution block where you found that oblong imprint, places Foley on his back,
his neck fitting into the block. It uses the blade of the
axe to sever the head from the body in one blow. It then hauls the headless corpse to the edge of the cliff, drops it
down into the crevasse. I noticed the house and road were concealed from both those points, so the driver of the limo
sees nothing. On its way back to the limo it collects the
head, drops it inside some kind of container, returns to
the limo, is driven away.'