Vorpal Blade (7 page)

Broden disappeared inside the building as Tweed walked
down the steps, got inside the front passenger seat. Paula gazed across the street but then Newman was driving off.

'I hope Jasper doesn't spot her camera,' she remarked.

'Camera?' Tweed asked, turning round.

'Yes, she had a small camera in her hands, rather like mine. She used it when we arrived and again as we left.'

'She's not committing an offence,' Tweed replied. 'Now
what did you think of the Arbogasts?'

'They're a very unusual family. I thought I sensed an
aura of hatred in Roman's office.'

'Sophie,' Newman commented, 'doesn't feel they take enough notice of her. I rather liked her. She's got brains
behind that rather quiet front she assumes.'

'Marienetta was nice to her.'

'Neither of you have noticed the absence of something,'
Tweed said. 'Roman never said a word about the visit of
the American Vice-President. And I'm sure it was Roman he went to see. Who else in the building would he want to
talk to? And what is the link between Roman and Russell Straub?'

'Can't imagine Roman controls many votes in an elec
tion in the States,' Newman replied. 'And votes are the
only thing politicians are interested in. Probably all about
nothing.'

'Maybe,' said Tweed.

* * *

Their car was stationary. Ahead as far as the eye could see was a solid block of cars, bumper to bumper. The stone buildings hemming them in on either side were grimy. The pavements were crammed with pedestrians. Lunchtime. Men and women shoved their way along. In doorways stood girls eating greasy food out of greasy paper bags.

Paula pulled a face. 'I don't see any nutrition any
where.'

She closed her window. A heavy overcast hung low over
the city. The 'air' in the street was a mix of petrol and
diesel fumes, pressed down by the overcast.

'London is turning into a mob hell,' she remarked.

'Talking about hell,' said Newman, 'what did you think
of Marienetta's second painting of Roman? Made him look
like an ogre.'

'A monster,' retorted Paula.

'Like many painters,' Tweed explained, 'she's influenced by famous artists. In her case Picasso. And in sculpture by Henry Moore.'

'Picasso's worst effort was never as brutal as the one she
painted of Roman,' Paula commented.

The traffic had started to move. Soon they were turning into Park Crescent. A man was sitting on the steps leading
into their building. Newman groaned.

'Him I can do without. That's Sam Snyder, chief crime
reporter on the
Daily Nation.
His name should be spelt
Snide. He's good, I'll grant him that, but ruthless where people's feelings are concerned. Don't let him inside.'

Tweed got out first, was about to hurry up the steps
when he was accosted. The reporter had stood up, spoke
rapidly.

'Mr Tweed. Thought you might like to know I have a
splash story in tomorrow's paper. About the first one in
the state of Maine. I'm just back from America. Mur
der.'

What he'd said stopped Tweed. He paused before pressing the bell, stared straight at the reporter.

'Which murder?'

'The caretaker who was beheaded at a dot on the map
called Pinedale, south of Portland. Head missing there too.
Like Holgate.'

'And you want to talk to me about it? Come upstairs.'
He pressed the bell.

As they followed the two men to Tweed's office Paula
looked at Newman. He raised his eyes to Heaven as much
as to say, 'Tweed's blown it.' She poked a finger into his
arm and whispered.

'Keep quiet. Tweed usually knows what he's doing . . .'

Inside the office Monica sat behind her desk, hammering away at her word processor. Tweed ushered his visitor into
an armchair, sat behind his desk.

'I'm Sam Snyder

'I know. I'm afraid I haven't much time. You talk, I
will listen.'

'My story also mentions that the Vice-President has a
wreck of a mansion just outside Pinedale.'

'He's going to love that,' Tweed commented. 'And he has just arrived in London.'

'I simply report the facts. I thought it was interesting.
Russell Straub arrives here three days ago. Now Holgate's
beheaded body is discovered out near Bray.'

'You're linking the three events in your story?'

Snyder smiled. He was a strange impressive figure. He
had a hawk-like face, long and cadaverous. His nose reminded Paula of the prow of an ice-breaker; his eyes
were dark and very still. His well-educated voice was
commanding and he sat erect in the armchair. His age was difficult to guess. Forty? Fifty? Sixty? Later Paula asked
Newman and he told her Snyder seemed ageless, always
had. Despite disliking his arrogance Newman admitted he
was a formidable force.

'Link those three events, Mr Tweed?' Snyder again gave
his peculiar smile. 'Of course not. The facts merely appear
in different sections of my story.'

'So why did you fly to America?'

'I read a long account in the
New York Times
a few
days ago. This was before Holgate's murder. I was struck
by an item reporting that the pathologist - or medical
examiner as they call them over there - was brought up from Boston. Why not the local man in Portland? I was
over there twenty-four hours, flew straight back. Yesterday a member of the FBI detachment at the American Embassy
phoned me. That decided me. I wrote the story.'

'What did the FBI man ask you?'

'I didn't take the call. The pathologist from Boston was
a Dr Ramsey. Quite a reputation.'

'What made you suspicious of this business? Something
you found out apart from the medical examiner coming
from Boston?'

'Outside Pinedale there is a nursing home, really a lunatic asylum. Hank Foley, the decapitated caretaker, worked there. The asylum was burnt to the ground a few hours after Hank Foley was murdered. Fortunately there were no patients left inside the building. It was the sort of place where very rich people parked an unwanted relative - unwanted because of a mental condition. It was run by a married couple, the Bryans. They have disappeared and no one seems to know where they have gone.'

'Intriguing,' commented Tweed.

'Now, sir, I have been open with you. So what did you
discover last night when you travelled to Bray with Chief
Superintendent Buchanan?'

'You pick up some strange rumours, Mr Snyder.'

The phone rang, Monica answered it, listened, gestured
for Tweed to take it. He lifted the phone, pushed his chair
nearer to the wall. Snyder stood up, ignored Newman,
wandered over to the wall near Paula's desk to study a
framed print on the wall. She had been staring at his
clothes. He wore a rough jacket with trousers to match.
At his throat a cravat was tied which had a design of foxes
capering about. He was clad more like a countryman than
a London reporter.

'I like this very much. It's a Turner print. Did you choose
it?' He smiled warmly, his manner now pleasant.

'As a matter of fact, I did.'

'You have excellent taste. It's Perugia, isn't it? Thought so. What an atmospheric genius Turner was. The fortress
town perched up suggests massive strength. I congratu
late you.'

'Thank you.'

Tweed had taken his brief call as Snyder returned to his
armchair. He had been
surprised when the throaty voice spoke. Roman Arbogast.

'Tweed, I do hope you will attend Sophie's birthday
party with your two friends. Other also distinguished
people will be there.'

'We will be glad to come . . .'

The phone went dead. Roman was not a man to waste
time on what he'd regard as pointless conversation.

'What is your opinion of the horrific Holgate murder?'
enquired Snyder.

'I don't think I've formed one.'

'You're as tough as granite,' Snyder observed in his nor
mal arrogant manner. 'I think I'd better go. I've received
an unusual invitation to a birthday party - for Sophie,
the daughter of Roman Arbogast. Expect he wants a write-up.'

Tweed fiddled with his pen. 'I've heard a rumour that
one of the guests may be Russell Straub. Thought I'd
warn you.'

'The paper with my story won't be on the streets until
tomorrow.'

'The early editions will be available at midnight,' Tweed reminded him. 'Straub is the sort of man who likes a team of aides with him wherever he goes, I suspect. One of those aides may hear of your article and drive over to get a copy.'

'Well, if Straub is going to be there so am I.' He paused. 'I suppose you know that when you arrived back here you
had been followed? The men inside the car had Special
Branch written all over them.'

'Nice to be protected,' replied Tweed, concealing his
surprise at this news.

'Something very funny is going on.' Snyder stood
up. 'When I was in Maine I noticed I had to pen
etrate a blanket of silence. People were very nervous
about talking. Keep well, all of you. I'll be in touch,
Tweed

And with that brief farewell Snyder said he could find
his own way out and left. No one spoke for a few minutes.
Paula broke the silence, glaring at Newman.

'You never said a word to him,' she snapped.

'Didn't have a word to say. Neither did he to me.'

'He was our guest. A polite greeting would have done
no harm. Where are your manners? The fact that you don't
like him is irrelevant,' she went on, working herself up.
'And he was very nice with me during our brief exchange
of conversation.'

'Hope you enjoyed it,' Newman rapped back ironically.

'You're impossible,' she retorted.

The phone rang, Monica answered it, looked at Tweed.
'We've got Chief Superintendent Buchanan on the line
for you.'

'Hello, Roy,' Tweed opened. 'How is life with you?'

'Pretty grim. I've been taken off the Holgate murder
case, told that no one on my team is to go anywhere
near it. And guess where the order comes from? The
Commissioner himself. Said it was strictly a matter for
the local force in Berkshire. He was pretty rough about
it - as though he'd received word from on high. Are you
staying with it?'