Vorpal Blade (26 page)

'Oh Lord! You should have spoken earlier. Back to the
table right now. You poor thing.'

Strange, Paula thought as they headed for the table, how
everyone came out here two days ago. The Arbogast family
and the Vice-President. Tweed would never believe that was a coincidence. Especially with a third murder.

17

Paula was consuming pasta avidly when Sophie took her
over, speaking so sensibly and knowledgeably Paula could
hardly credit it was the same woman. Sophie the scientist.

'We've got a plastics factory down the road which was
my idea. I've invented - and patented - a new technique
for plastic. It's going to make my father another fortune.'

'Tell me about it,' Paula said between mouthfuls.

'It's stronger and much more flexible than any existing form of plastic. I spent months working on the theory but
now it's in production—'

'Let Paula eat her meal,' Marienetta interrupted. 'She
is starving.'

'So,' Sophie continued, ignoring the hint, 'you can warm
it then mould it into any shape you like with your hands. A
lot of airlines have placed contracts. The flexibility can be
adjusted - by hand or machine - to any strength or shape
simply by moulding it, and when it's cool it keeps its form,
solid as a rock. I read chemistry and physics at Durham
University and came out with a double First.'

'Really?' Paula stopped eating and gazed into Sophie's
intense eyes. She was impressed. The lady had a first-rate
brain, something she had missed. 'Your father must be
very admiring of your achievement.'

'Oh, I suppose he is.' Her expression had darkened.
'He goes to Vevey with Marienetta and they pore over the
money side. Marienetta flies over without telling me so she
can organize the administration. I invented the damned
stuff and I'm not even a director. Both of them are.'

'Yes,' Black Jack interjected with a sneering smile, 'but you're a scientist. A balance sheet is hieroglyphics to your
limited intellect.'

'Paula,' Sophie said quietly, picking up a fork, 'may I have a taste of your pasta?'

'Go ahead,' Paula urged her. 'There's far too much
for me.'

Sophie piled her fork full of pasta, suddenly turned to
her left and emptied the contents into Black Jack's lap.

'That's a messy way to eat,' a new voice commented
nastily. Sam Snyder had appeared out of nowhere.

The hawk-faced reporter stood close to Diamond as he waved a hand at the other diners round the table. He was
wearing a dinner jacket and looked very different from when he had walked in to the coffee shop in faraway
London's King Street.

'Good evening, ladies.'

Black Jack stood up, stumbled, knocked over his chair.
He glared at Snyder savagely. His left fist clenched and
he snarled: 'I'm going to put you in hospital, you dirty
little tyke.'

Here we go, Paula said to herself. Blackjack was going to
beat up the reporter badly. His left fist moved back to give
extra violence to the blow. It slammed forward, Snyder
moved so swiftly Paula hardly saw what happened. Black Jack's left arm was gripped in an arm-lock, twisted round,
turning its owner with it. Paula was surprised by Snyder's
strength.

'Ouch!' yelled Black Jack. 'You're breaking my arm.'

'Breaking it yourself, mate, by moving. So just you keep
quite still or you will be the one in hospital.'

For several moments both men stood motionless, like figures in a tableau. Other diners stared. Paula was struck by the grim look on the reporter's face. It occurred to her that Snyder was more than capable of carrying out his threat.

'Now, going to keep quiet, mate?' Snyder asked. 'If you
are I can let you go. You do need to clean yourself up.'

'Release me,' Jack croaked. 'I'm heading for the bath
room.'

Snyder let go, Jack stood up slowly, his right hand
clutching his left arm. Still slowly, he began to walk away.
Then he paused, turned round and addressed the table.

'See you, folks,' he said in a parting attempt to express
bravado. He brushed aside a waiter who had rushed for
ward with a napkin to help clean him up. Then he was
gone.

'Sorry about that,' Snyder remarked. 'Seeing as there's
an empty chair here I might as well sit in it. If that's OK
by you.'

He didn't wait for an answer, seating himself in the chair
vacated by Black Jack. The waiter placed a fresh glass
before him. Marienetta poured red wine for him, clasped
her hands together, the points of her fingers steepled under
her chin, staring at him.

'What brings you to Montreux?' Paula asked him.

'I followed Sophie and Black Jack, travelled in the rear
of the same plane they took to Geneva. Then hired a taxi
to follow the car waiting for them. Simple as that.'

'I don't think you've really answered my question,'
Paula persisted.

'Murder brought me here.' Snyder tried the wine, looked
at Marienetta. 'Thank you, this is excellent. Most kind
of you.'

'Murder?' Paula was puzzled. 'You couldn't have heard of any murder in Montreux. It hadn't happened when you
caught the flight at Heathrow two days ago.'

'True. It hadn't. I was referring to the murder of Adam
Holgate at Bray. The Arbogasts have a mansion out there.

Abbey Grange. Now the Arbogasts are here and out on that
lake another body is floating. So my hunch was right. My
hunches are often on target.'

'I don't like your implication,' Marienetta said, her
tone chilly.

'No implication, Marienetta.' Snyder gave her a smile,
so warm and pleasant it surprised Paula. There was another side to this reporter. 'No implication at all,'
Snyder continued. 'But I think a member of the Arbogast
circle may have vital information without realizing it.'

Smooth too, Paula decided. Clever with using words.

'What so-called vital information?' Marienetta asked in
the same cold voice.

'Well, in London at the Cone building Mr Roman
Arbogast agreed to see me. Then I saw you and the
result was a total negative. As though there's something
important to hide. It ended up with your calling Broden
to throw me out.' Snyder turned to Paula. 'Did you know
Broden is here? At this moment he's sitting at the bar,
watching us in the mirror behind it.'

'No, I didn't know he was here,' Paula replied. 'But that
is the business of the Arbogasts.'

'Paula.' Marienetta leaned forward. 'Broden is here as a
bodyguard. For Uncle. He flew to Switzerland with him.'

'But someone told me Roman left the hotel a few hours
ago in his car, driving himself and on his own.'

'You're quite right. Uncle heard about the headless body
in the lake and left Broden behind to look after us - Sophie
and myself. He was worried.'

'So Broden has been here two days,' Paula remarked.

'That's right.'

'One thing I wanted to check,' Snyder said, looking at
Marienetta. 'What exactly were Adam Holgate's duties at
ACTIL? And did he snoop around at all?'

'Try minding your own business.' Marienetta's tone was
freezing now.

'I can tell you,' piped up Sophie, annoyed at being left out of the conversation. 'Adam never stopped snooping.
He was careful to wait until Broden was out of the
way . . .'

'Sophie,'
warned Marienetta.

A mistake, Paula said to herself, it will only egg Sophie
on, and it did.

'I think Adam had made duplicate keys of cabinets
containing top secret files. He probably learned that trick
when he was working for you,' she said, looking at Paula. 'Once I caught him using a camera to photograph certain
documents. Don't know what they were.'

'Intriguing,' commented Snyder.

'I think we should have coffee in the lounge,' suggested
Marienetta, standing up, 'then the waiters can clear the
table. Do take the bottle with you, Mr Snyder. I have
heard reporters are partial to alcohol to stimulate their
wild imaginations . . .'

Paula walked over to join Tweed and Newman, who were
drinking coffee. She told Tweed everything that had been
said, quoting dialogue from memory. Like Marienetta and
Sophie, Snyder had left the dining room. Tweed lit one of his rare cigarettes, leaning back in his chair as he listened
to Paula.

'That's it,' she said eventually. 'You've got the lot.'

'It was well worthwhile suggesting you joined them,' Tweed said thoughtfully. 'That bit about Holgate photo
graphing documents could be significant.'

'Broden is now watching us in that mirror,' Newman
observed. 'There's something not right about the Arbogast
set-up. Interesting that Sophie is much brighter than we'd
thought.'

'That plastics factory could be a key factor,' Tweed
remarked dreamily.

'In what way?' Paula asked.

'Time we moved,' he replied. 'Paula, I want you to help
me play a trick on the receptionist, to divert his attention
after I've asked him something.'

'I suppose I'll think something up.'

The receptionist was behind his counter when they
strolled into the hall. Beyond the entrance doors a car
had pulled up and new visitors were getting out. Tweed hurried to the desk.

'Excuse me,' he began, 'but when I registered I think
I made a mistake with my address. Could I correct it,
please.'

The receptionist opened the register, pushed it towards
Tweed as guests began to enter. Paula asked the recep
tionist if she could have a train timetable. The receptionist
gave her one and then was occupied with the new arrivals.
Tweed's eyes scanned the whole page, starting with the
top. Then he took out a pen and wrote again the same
address over the one he had written earlier.

He went over to where Newman was chatting to Paula.
He kept his voice low.

'Bob, that locksmith who came up from the mansion in
Surrey taught you how to open doors. Could you manage
a door here upstairs? You've seen your own door.'