Vorpal Blade (13 page)

'Then let's look at the photos she left us,' Tweed
decided.

Tweed opened the envelope, spread across his desk so
many photos it was covered. Armed like Tweed with
magnifying glasses, Paula and Newman hauled their chairs
over. Marler stood behind them.

'Lord knows how many films she used up,' Tweed
commented.

'These look interesting,' Paula said, selecting a batch of
prints while Tweed shuffled others around. She swept her
magnifying glass over a crowd of people entering the Cone.
Stopping suddenly, she leaned further forward, nudged
Tweed.

'Here she is. Marienetta. Running up the steps. Ready
to sort out anyone who isn't doing what she considers a
perfect job. Broden is waiting for her in front of that beastly revolving door. They've fixed the door, I suspect, so at that
moment it revolves all the time.'

'They'd never get everyone in until lunchtime other
wise,' Tweed said leaning over. 'Even from the back she
really is a beautiful woman.'

'Lots more to check out,' she said selecting another
print. 'Oh, here is the Saviour of the World. The very
honourable Russell Straub. Even arriving he has to per
form his act.'

'What's that?' Tweed asked looking again.

Straub had been caught standing at the top of the
steps, facing the street. Both arms were raised high to
acknowledge a crowd which had gathered below. Beside
him stood a man, presumably a bodyguard, lean, ener
getic looking and grinning from ear to ear. Paula pointed
at him.

'Rather like the look of him. Wonder who he is? A lot
of character.'

'I wouldn't trust Straub as far as I could throw the
Cone,' commented Marler.

'Join the club,' agreed Newman, peering through the
glass as Paula shifted it so each
man could see clearly.

'Here's Sophie, looking sullen and grim,' Paula reported,
checking another print. 'I'm having tea with Marienetta
today at six this evening, or just before when it's quiet.'

'How did that come about?' Tweed asked. 'You're due
to have drinks with Black Jack at seven.'

'It's only a short walk from Brown's to Marino's. I'll fit
them both in. Marienetta suggested we get together during
the dinner.'

'You two seem to get on well,' Tweed remarked.

'I think she feels comfortable with me. Because Roman
thought Security was the key department at ACTIL,
Marienetta worked as a detective for Medford's before being taken on the staff.'

'Medford's?' Tweed was impressed. 'They're the top
private investigation agency in London. And they're very
choosy who they take on.'

'Marienetta could talk and smooch her way into almost
any job in this fair city . . .'

The checking of Elena's photos went on. Marler had
found a magnifying glass and was himself checking.
There was silence for a while until Tweed suddenly
spoke.

'What is this? What was he doing there? Sam Snyder
going into the building.'

'Let me see.' Newman checked the print. 'Yes, it's him.
I wonder who he was going to see? Doubt if it would be
Roman Arbogast. He never gives interviews.'

'Something even stranger,' Tweed said, spreading out
five prints. 'He's the only person she photographed five
times. On arrival in the street, going up the steps, turning
round halfway up, pausing before the door, going in.
Snyder. Five times. Why?'

7

Dr Abraham Scale was late for his appointment and
made no apology when Monica ushered him into the
office. Paula took an instant dislike to him and he
hardly seemed the same man whose lecture she had
once attended.

Very tall and slim, he wore a frock coat, dark black.
At his neck, below a prominent Adam's apple, protruded
the ends of a stiff white Victorian collar. His long face
was craggy, his eyes cold, his hair dark and thick like
his eyebrows. He carried in his right hand a thick black cane with a silver head shaped like a serpent.

He sat in an armchair, facing Tweed, sat erect as a
flagpole. It was impossible to guess his age and his voice
was high-pitched, his manner condescending. Grasping
the head of his cane in both large strong hands, he swept
his gaze round the room swiftly, turned back to Tweed.

'I haven't much spare time. I'm a busy man but
Buchanan insisted I came to see you. I presume you are
Tweed.'

'I am.'

'That's a splendid cane you have,' Newman remarked,
and held out his hand.

Reluctantly Dr Scale extended the ea-me, keeping a firm
grip on it. Newman reached out to examine the strange
head. The cane was jerked away.

'The head is pure silver. I wouldn't like it smeared.'

'What can you do for us - or what can we do for you?' Tweed enquired.

'Listen with both your ears. I understand you are
involved in the murder of the caretaker Hank Foley, in
Pinedale. Also in the similar murder of Adam Holgate at
Bray. The most significant factor in both cases is that the
heads are missing.'

'Foley's could have been thrown into the sea, Holgate's
into the River Thames,' interjected Paula.

'Nonsense,' snapped Scale. 'If that had been the case
the corpses would have been disposed of in the same
way. They were not. Another significant factor. We are
dealing with a murderer who is abnormal. Then there is
the question of gender. Quite abnormal,' he repeated in
his emphatic way.

'Then he should be easy to spot.' Tweed suggested.

'On the contrary. Most of the time it may well appear to
be quite normal. It is not generally realized that we are all abnormal in some way. We do something and think: Why
did I do that? A tinge of abnormality. There are degrees.
When we have someone who decapitates people we have
reached the ultimate. But don't imagine you can't have
dinner with it without realizing what horrors lie beneath
the surface.'

'Not a pleasant thought,' commented Tweed.

'It is, I am quite sure, very sly and cunning. An expert
at mingling with fairly normal people so they have no
inkling of what they are dealing with. Bundy, who raped
and killed so many girls in the States, was able to do so
because when he approached his victims he appeared so normal. The murder method is intriguing,' he went on as
though discussing the merits of a meal. 'It has perfected an admirable technique - the neat slicing of the head off
the neck just below the chin so the head is preserved in
perfect condition. Concentrate on that and one day you
may identify it. Or you may not.'

'Any more tips?' Tweed enquired, his eyes half-closed as he fiddled with his pen.

'Tips!' Scale was outraged. 'My dear sir, years of study
of many specimens have gone into every word I utter.
You have to exert your brain, imagine you are it. How would you go about exercising this brilliant technique?'
He switched his gaze to Paula. 'Are you acquainted with
the Wychwood Library?'

'Yes,' replied Paula staring straight at the dark eyes. 'But
you have to be a member.'

'I am a member,' Tweed said quietly.

'Then,' said Scale, still gazing at Paula, 'use Tweed's
card to borrow a copy of
A History of Executions
by Jonathan
Wylie. Study the volume.' His gaze was stern. 'It may help
you to understand it - how it operates. There is a factor no
one has mentioned. I leave you to discover what it is.'

'It would help Miss Grey if she knew what she was looking for in the book,' Tweed suggested.

'No, it wouldn't,' Scale snapped again. 'She must find out for herself what Wylie's marvellous book tells her.
And that man leaning against the wall over there,' he
said referring to Marler, 'adopts that stance for a good
reason.'

'What reason?' Tweed asked, not in the least put out by
his strange visitor's appalling arrogance.

'He is a combat man. Sitting down would put him
at a great disadvantage, if attacked. Standing up he is
in a much stronger position to deal with any situation
that arises.'

Scale stood up, stroked his cane, his gaze swept once
more round the room. He turned to the door, not looking
at Tweed.

'That is all I have to say. I have now done my duty by
Roy Buchanan. Goodbye . . .'

* * *

'That is a character and a half,' Tweed mused when they were on their own.

'Like something out of Charles Dickens,' Newman com
mented. 'Doesn't belong to this age at all. Stuffed shirt.'

'I did found something he said very interesting,' Tweed
replied.

'From now on I'm going to refer to this homicidal
maniac as "it",' announced Paula. 'I think the word will
help us to track it down.'

'Why?' Newman prodded her sceptically.

'Because the murderer is inhuman but will look human.
Scale confirmed that. Referring to the killer as "it" will
remind us of that fact, keep us on our guard.'

'I think Paula is right. A good idea,' agreed Tweed.

'He was right about one thing,' Marler interjected. 'I do
lean against walls so my back is guarded. Shrewd of him
to make that observation.'

'He's a crackpot,' Newman snapped. 'I wonder how he
makes a living? That weird outfit he was wearing was new,
must have cost a pretty penny.'

'I've just remembered,' Tweed remarked. 'Scale even
goes to the States on lecture tours. I'm sure he rakes in the dollars. Dressed like that he'll be a raging success with his
American audiences.'

'He believes in self-protection. That cane he wouldn't
let me touch is, I'm sure, a formidable swordstick.'

'Swordstick?' Marler interjected again. 'Could you slice
a head cleanly off a body with something like that?'

'It's a thought,' said Tweed. 'Scale is the sort of charac
ter you see once in a lifetime.'

'Don't agree,' said Newman. 'He was at Sophie's birth
day party in full evening dress. At one of the tables near
the back.'