Vorpal Blade (8 page)

'After what you've just told me I most certainly am.
What is going on, Roy?'

'For some reason they're putting a cordon round the
Holgate murder. Who are they? No idea. But they're
pretty high up - someone had obviously twisted the Com
missioner's arm. Someone very powerful. I'll contact you if
I learn more. If you want to call me, use my home number.
Got to go . . .'

Tweed told the others what Buchanan had said. Paula
was furious. 'Buchanan is the best detective they've got.'

'Which is probably why they - the mysterious
they -
have
put him in quarantine. And while I remember it, I won't
have you two fighting each other. Clear?'

'Sorry,' said Paula.

'Ditto,' added Newman. 'What did you think of Snyder?
He had obviously hoped you'd let slip some information he
could use. Silly chap.'

'But how could he have known about our visit to Bray?'
Paula wondered.

'He has so many informants,' Newman explained.
'Some in the police force. Plus a depthless access to
expenses. Two hundred quid offered and one of those
policemen we encountered would spill his guts. The world
has changed a lot.'

Tweed brought up another point. 'What did you think
of Sam Snyder, Paula? I know what you think, Bob.'

'I think he's very shrewd,' she began, 'the sort of man
who never gives up once he suspects he's on to a really big
story. I think he'll continue with his investigation.'

'He did say several things which interested me,' Tweed
said thoughtfully, staring out of the window. 'A very weird
picture is building up in my mind.'

'Which you won't reveal to us yet,' Paula complained.
She stood up, peered out of the window through the thick
net curtains. 'A car followed us from the ACTIL building,
a brown Volvo with one man behind the wheel. It's still
out there.'

'Probably Special Branch,' Newman remarked. 'Is Harry
Butler on the premises?'

'Yes, he is,' Monica replied.

'Could you call him? Ask him to go out and persuade
that driver it's time he moved on.'

'Knowing Harry, I wouldn't like to be that driver,' Paula
commented.

Harry Butler was only five feet five tall but his body was
burly, his shoulders wide. His face rarely revealed any expression, but no mugger ever approached him. Wearing
a heavy windcheater, the material worn and shabby, his
powerful legs were covered in equally shabby jeans and
his feet were encased in heavy boots.

He left the building by a back entrance, coming up on
the parked Volvo very silently. He could see the squat
driver through the rear window, holding a pair of field glasses aimed at Tweed's windows.

'Right, matey,' he said to himself. Walking round to
the driver's side as it began to get dark he tapped on
the window. The squat man lowered his glasses, glared with piggy eyes at Butler, who continued tapping. The
driver lowered the window. Butler immediately leaned
both brawny arms on the window so it couldn't be closed
again. His large right hand was closed in a fist.

'What the friggin' 'ell do you want?' the driver snarled.

'This is a nice area,' Harry said cordially. 'Not one for
voyeurs. Expect you've been salivatin' while you spy on
some poor girl takin' a shower. Go back to the East End to the hole you crawled out of. Shove off.'

The driver reached down to his side, pressed the but
ton to shut the window. The pressure of Harry's strong
arms held it open. The driver gave up, glared at
Harry.

'Get your flamin' arms off my window.'

'I'm not a patient man.' Butler opened his fist, revealed he was holding a small canister, the nozzle aimed at the driver's face, his thumb close to the release button. 'See this? It's Mace. I press the button and you get an eyeful, two eyefuls. Last guy I used it on couldn't see for over a week. Very painful.'

'That's illegal.'

The driver's voice was less aggressive as he stared at the
small canister. Butler smiled pleasantly.

'It would be your word against mine. You'd be screamin' in agony. So be sensible. Key's in the ignition. All you have
to do is turn it, shove off.'

'I'll remember your face,' snapped the driver.

'Do that. Just hope you don't meet me in a dark alley.
Now, on your way, sonny . . .'

The driver suddenly grabbed the ignition key, turned it
quickly, released the brake, rammed his foot down on the
accelerator, aiming to hit Butler with the side of his car as
he shot forward. Which is what Butler had expected so he
had already nipped round the rear of the Volvo, standing
on the pavement.

The car rocketed to the other end of the Crescent,
scraped the side of a Mercedes, both cars stopped. Butler
could see them shaking their fists as he returned to the
building.

'Terrible drivers on the roads these days,' he said to
himself.

'That brown Volvo has gone, collided with another car,' Paula reported, sitting down at her desk.

'Of course it has,' Newman replied. 'Harry Butler has
his little ways. Incidentally, I was aware it was following
us from ACTIL. Saw it in my rear-view mirror. Didn't
think it was worth mentioning.'

'Bob,' Tweed addressed Newman, 'Roman Arbogast
mentioned as we were leaving that one of the guests
tonight is a Black Jack Diamond, a friend of Sophie's. I've heard the name but know little about him.'

'There's a story. Can't say I admire Sophie's taste in men
friends. He's good-looking, a professional womanizer, and
he used to be a big-time gambler at blackjack. Hence his nickname. Used to play at Templeton's, the swish club in
Mayfair. Skilled. Won huge sums. One night the club had
to send out to their bank for more money - he'd cleaned
them out. Came in an armoured car. He cleaned up that
lot. Became so rich he bid for Templeton's, bought the
place. Stopped gambling immediately. Now he runs the
club. Athletic type. Diamond is his Christian name. Hence
Black Jack Diamond.'

'I shouldn't have thought Roman Arbogast approves,' Paula remarked. 'What's his surname?'

'Arbogast. He's a cousin. As for Roman's approval, I
doubt he has much choice. Sophie struck me as strong-
willed, does what she likes . . .'

'I've never met this Black Jack Diamond,' Paula said
with a thoughtful look.

'And you don't want to,' Newman warned. 'He's dan
gerous. A typical rich man's son, thinks the world's his
oyster. His uncle, Alfred, Roman's father, went into the
munitions business. Roman bought him out when he
wanted a life of leisure. Hence the A for armaments in
ACTIL. The plant is in America.'

'Whereabouts in the States?' asked Tweed.

'Boston.'

4

'Ladies and gentlemen, the Vice-President of the United
States, the Honourable Russell Straub.'

All eyes at the array of round tables in the Tree Creeper's
spacious first-floor room turned to gaze at the door. His
bodyguards, two tough-looking men in grey suits, stood
aside at the doorway, and Russell Straub, clad in a din
ner jacket, walked swiftly into view, both arms raised as
thunderous clapping broke out. He stood there, keeping
his arms raised as applause continued.

'Milking the audience for every second he can,' whis
pered Newman, seated next to Paula.

'Shsh!' she admonished him. 'And that's not the way
to clap.'

Newman had both hands lifted and was patting his
fingers together with a bored look. Straub still stood at the top of the steps leading down to the tables, a broad
grin on his thin face. More applause.

'He paints that grin on his face so it will last,' Newman whispered again.

'You're impossible,' Paula responded, smiling.

Straub was a tall lean figure with dark hair brushed well
back over his head, thin dark eyebrows, glowing eyes, a
long sharp nose, a mean mouth and a stubborn chin. As
he descended the steps he spread his arms wide as though
to enclose the crowded room in a warm embrace.

'He's going to kiss us all next,' Newman commented.

'Keep your voice down and shut up.' Paula snapped.

'Difficult to do both at the same time.'

As he was escorted to his table at the head of the room
Straub first toured it, shaking the hand of each guest as
nearly everyone stood up. The sole exception was Roman
Arbogast, who simply twisted round in his chair to accept the hand clasp. Straub bent down, said something to him,
Arbogast merely nodded. Then at long last he sat down, with Sophie on his right. He handed her a parcel he took
from a bodyguard, a present wrapped in the Stars and
Stripes.

'Very subtle,' Newman said.

'I couldn't agree more,' added Paula's companion on
her left. She had been taken aback when she first saw the
name card in front of the tall handsome man next to her. Black Jack Diamond. 'Should have been the Union Jack,' he continued, 'but what can you expect from an ignorant politician.'

'Hear, hear,' called out Marienetta seated opposite,
chuckling. 'I see Chicken Maryland is on the menu. Let's
hope it's fresh, coming all that way.' She chuckled again,
joined by Newman and Black Jack.

'Won't have been in the fridge more than six months,'
Black Jack responded. 'The Americans are very proud of
their giant fridges. That's where they store politicians who
have got beyond it - their version of Madame Tussaud's.'

Newman was drinking wine and nearly choked when he
heard Black Jack's comment. Paula was feeling embar
rassed, penned between two such rednecks - as she
described them to herself. Marienetta had sensed her
reaction and when the man on her right apologized for
slipping away, saying he felt unwell, she beckoned to Paula,
tapping the empty chair beside her.

They had finished two courses and in long intervals
guests walked through between folded back doors into
another room where there was dancing. The band was
playing a quick foxtrot. Paula stood up to join Marienetta, and Black Jack stood up at the same moment, clasping her
by the arm.

'Please do me the honour,' he suggested. 'It would give
me great pleasure to dance with such an attractive and
clever woman.'