This United State (12 page)

'Paula,' Tweed suggested, getting up from his swivel chair, 'it has been a gruelling time. How would you like to join me for an evening at Goodfellows?'

'Lovely idea. Thank you. I could do with some relaxation — and Bob and Muter are off on a bar crawl with Windermere. I'll drive home to change, then come back here to join you.'

'I'm not changing. I put on a decent suit to see Strangeways,' Tweed told her.

He looked at Monica when Paula had left. She was talking to someone on the phone, making notes on a pad. When she put down the phone she nodded with satisfaction.

'That was a contact in Washington I was talking to. I'm still building up profiles.'

'I have an additional fact I'd like you to concentrate on. I need to know which of the profiles you're working on has a second name. Charlie. Or Charles.'

'English or American?'

'Could be either. I heard the name when I picked up a phone at the American Embassy and overheard a snatch of conversation. His identity could be the key to what is happening.'

'What is happening?'

'I'm not sure yet. I'm beginning to fear a gigantic operation is under way which bodes ill for this country. But Charlie can wait until the morning. Go home now and get some rest.'

'Not yet. The adrenalin is surging. I'm going to keep at it for a bit longer. You should enjoy Goodfellows. I hear it's a sophisticated nightclub. Expensive too. Nice for Paula.'

'I'm just hoping she won't be mad with me when she sees the clientèle after we've arrived.'

'Why should she be?'

'Because it happens to be the in-place patronized by top Americans at the moment.'

Paula parked her car in the cul-de-sac off the Fulham Road. She was lucky — she had a permanent slot which went with her flat. She lived in the top half of a small elegant house divided into two flats.

She was standing under a wall lamp when she dropped her car keys on the cobbles. Swearing, she stooped to pick them up, then straightening up, she paused to smooth down her glossy dark hair. Then she ran up the outside staircase, paused again under another wall lamp to get out her two sets of keys to open the door.

Across on the other side of the Fulham Road, a man stood hidden in the shadows of a doorway. Baldy was dressed in an almost comic fashion. He wore a Borsalino hat, its wide brim well pulled down. It was partly a disguise and partly to shield his head from the intense cold.

'Got you, Paula Grey,' he said to himself. 'I guess you're not going to enjoy the last few hours of your life with me. Not one friggin' bit.'

8

'Cheers, my dear chap,' Basil Windermere called out.

Newman had just entered the ground-floor bar. He acknowledged the greeting with a wave of his hand. Windermere was perched on a bar stool. Walking slowly towards him Newman glanced at the couples dining at tables by the wall. No Marler. Quickly he averted his sweeping gaze. Marler was there, with a girl.

He's practically unrecognizable even to me, Newman thought. Marler was wearing a smoking jacket with a velvet collar. He also had a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. It was the glasses which did the trick, Newman decided — he'd never seen Marler wear them before. For some reason his raincoat was folded over the empty chair next to him.

'Just finished a drink,' Windermere said as Newman sat on the stool next to him.

He wore his usual polka-dot bow tie, a pink shirt, a Prince of Wales check suit. It should have looked wrong but instead it looked smart. Windermere always took a lot of trouble over his appearance.

'Can you hold out a few more minutes?' Windermere said.

'Hold out?'

'Before you have a drink. This place is quiet tonight. I vote we go up the street to Goodfellows. Where the action is.'

'Where the rich ladies are?'

'Got it in one, chum.'

'Then we're leaving,' Newman agreed, raising his voice.

'At the double, as Rupert would say. Mockingly.' Marler leaned across his table, spoke quietly to his companion, his wallet in his hand. He extracted a fifty-pound note, left it on the table as he spoke.

'Sorry. Warned you I might only have time for a drink. Have to rush back to the office. My pager just beeped.'

'I didn't hear anything...'

'You weren't supposed to. I'll call you.'

'Don't bother. You haven't even finished your food—'

She was talking to a blank space. Newman, trying to catch what Marler said, left his stool. Windermere was already on his way out. Marler slipped past Newman as though he didn't know him. He peered out while putting on his own coat, stiffened.

Looking down the narrow street he saw a small man wearing an old trilby hat, a shabby windcheater and denims, peering inside a dustbin. The Ear. As he watched, standing well back, Marler saw the small man start shuffling up the street at surprising speed. The little man passed him, Marler looked to his left. Basil Windermere was striding up the street, his long legs moving at an athletic pace. Marler was startled. The Ear was following Basil Windermere.

'I think this place is full of Americans,' Paula whispered.

They had just entered the luxurious interior of Goodfellows. Chandeliers were suspended from the ceilings. Each table was illuminated by a rose-coloured shade supported above an expensive, tasteful vase. Most of the tables were occupied and there was the sound of buoyant chatter mingling with the clinking of glasses.

'We have a table reserved. Name is Tweed,' her escort said to the head waiter.

'By a window, sir. I'm sure you will find it satisfactory.'

Paula sat in a chair facing in the distance the mahogany bar. She glanced round the restaurant, glad she'd taken the trouble to change. A lot of the men wore evening suits with black ties. Others were in smart business clothes. The women had all dressed up. She felt comfortable in her blue dress with its high collar and long sleeves. Round her slim waist she wore a thin gold belt. She looked at the bar again.

'I thought you were taking us out for an evening's relaxation.'

'That was the idea,' said Tweed, glancing up from the menu.

'The place is packed with Americans. That nice Ed Osborne is holding up one end of the bar. You brought us here to check up on who is in town.'

'Should I apologize?'

'Of course not.' Her tone softened. 'I'm sorry I talked like that. We have a job to do.'

'And there may not be much time left.'

Tweed returned to examining the , menu, glancing down the wine list, turning pages of the leather folder. The waiter appeared quickly and Paula ordered a dry Martini. Tweed said he'd like a glass of dry white French wine. Paula stared again at the bar.

'When you can, look at the far end of the bar. Osborne is talking to a weird man, and gestured towards our table.'

'Wonder who he is? Not sure I like the look of him.'

The individual she had drawn his attention to was short, had wide shoulders, a large head and a barrel of a chest. His brown hair was cut short and he wore an evening suit. He left the bar, sidled his way between the tables and headed straight for them.

'Hi, folks. Ed Osborne suggested I came over to give you both a big hello. I'm Jake Ronstadt.'

'Paula Grey,' said Tweed. 'And to finish the introductions I'm Tweed.'

'You have a real good taste in beautiful ladies. I sure do envy you.'

He bent down, wrapped a bearlike hand and arm round Paula's shoulders. Inwardly she thanked Heaven she was not wearing an off-the-shoulder dress. Tweed was staring at Ronstadt. When he mentioned Paula's name the small, heavy-lidded eyes had flickered. Just for a millisecond, but the reaction had been strange.

'You sound to be from New York,' Tweed commented. 'What are you doing over here? You're a long way from home.'

'Right on the button. New York.' Ronstadt released Paula from his grip, stood up. 'I'm with the Embassy.' 'Really?' Tweed persisted. 'In what capacity? What job?'

'I guess you could say I'm in public relations.' 'And what does that involve, Mr Ronstadt?'

'Jake, please,' his voice rumbled. 'I smooth the way for making friends with people the Ambassador wants to meet.'

'Well, I don't see any reason why he'd want to meet me.'

'He sure does. That's why Ed sent me over to get to know you both. And I'll tell you something else.' He lowered his voice. 'Jefferson Morgenstern, our Secretary of State, is anxious to see you.' He placed a thick finger beside his stubby nose. 'That's off the record. Know what I mean? Guess I'd better leave you folk to get on with your dinner. Enjoy.'

'I don't like that man,' Paula said when Ronstadt had left. 'He radiates physical vitality and power - but he has the smile of a crocodile.'

'Someone else for Monica to profile,' Tweed said quietly. 'I see you've spotted someone at the bar, from your expression.'

'You're not going to believe it. Bob has just walked in with Basil Windermere. They're sitting at the other end of the bar from Osborne.'

'Guess I'll start with a Scotch,' Basil said as he settled on his stool.

'Do you ever sit on anything other than a bar stool?' Newman enquired.

'Not if I can help it. You'd be surprised at how many ancient dowagers think it's fun to perch on one with me. Makes them feel young again.'

'If you say so. I'll have a Scotch too,' he told the barman. 'Basil, you mentioned a Rupert who used the phrase "at the double". Rupert Who?'

'Rupert Strangeways, of course. There's only one Rupert, son of
the
Strangeways. The old boy is loaded. Rupert's a drinking pal of mine.'

'On the Continent as well?'

'No.' A pause. 'Not on the Continent. Down the hatch!'

'Cheers. Do you still go to that shooting club down by the Thames?'

'Haven't been for ages. Got bored. No business there. No ladies dripping diamonds. Rupert used to come with me. He's stopped going.'

'Was he a good shot?'

'You must be joking. He hit everything except the target. I scored the occasional bull. Pure fluke. Talk of the devil — look what the tide washed up.'

A man in his thirties with a sneering expression had sat on the stool next to Basil. He wore a very expensive dinner suit, a jacket with silk-covered lapels. The barman came and stared at him.

T11 have a double Scotch. At the double. While you're at it build me another as a reserve.'

The barman gave Rupert a look which was not friendly. Newman was trying to think of a way to get Basil out of Goodfellows. When they had come in Newman spotted Tweed and Paula at their window table. He was sure Basil, with the bar as his magnet, hadn't seen them. There had to be a ploy to persuade Basil to come with him elsewhere. Newman had also observed that Ed Osborne was occupying the far end of the bar. He wondered who the short, grim-looking individual with Osborne might be. He kept staring at Newman with his hard eyes. Newman thought it was a long time since he'd seen such a ruthless-looking man. His opportunity to shift Basil came unexpectedly.

'You shouldn't talk to the barman the way you do, Rupert,' Basil told him. 'He doesn't like it.'

'Who gives a frig for a barman?'

'Not the lord of the manor, the king of creation, God's gift to the casinos in Europe.'

'How would you like this drink poured over your crummy suit?' Rupert snarled.

'Time to go, find fresh fields,' Newman said firmly, gripping Basil's arm.

'I think you're right,' Basil agreed. He glanced at Rupert. 'You don't get the best type of person in here.'

Rupert was lifting his glass when Newman hauled Basil off the stool. Just in time. Rupert's double Scotch flooded the stool Basil had just vacated. Newman hustled Basil away from the bar, between tables and out of the entrance. The cold air hit Basil, who stumbled, swayed.

'Time to go home,' Newman insisted. 'We can have another drink there …'

An hour and a half later Tweed paid the bill and left the club with Paula. They had come by taxi and Tweed was looking for another cab. Of course, there was no sign of one.