Vorpal Blade (14 page)

'Don't miss much, do you?' commented Paula.

'Sam Snyder was also at that party,' Newman told her. 'He was also sitting at a table near the back.'

'Sam Snyder,' Tweed repeated, gazing out of the win
dow. 'I still wonder why Elena took five pictures of Snyder
but of no one else.'

8

Paula, armed with Tweed's library card, walked rap
idly down Harley Street. Scale's late arrival had thrown
out her whole schedule. She had looked for a taxi but,
of course, when she really needed a cab there wasn't
one anywhere. She had a very long walk to reach the
Wychwood Library off St James Square. The weather
was cold and she had slipped on a coat before leav
ing Park Crescent. The sky was pewter grey. So cheer
ful.

As she hurried along she found herself gazing at the
people she passed. She thought, you look normal, but are
you? Scale's personality had impressed itself on her mind.
Eventually she crossed Piccadilly where people crammed
the pavements. They all began to look abnormal to her.
Stop it!
she told herself.

Her first encounter with the receptionist, a middle-aged
woman who kept sliding her glasses back up her nose,
was not promising. Pale-faced and unsmiling the woman
studied the card Paula had given her dubiously, then
slowly gazed at her.

'You're a woman,' she began. 'This card is for a man.'

How damned observant of you,
Paula fumed inwardly.
Was this going to take for ever? She disliked this type of
woman, who reminded her of a civil servant. She felt in
her bag, found a General & Cumbria Assurance card, the
cover name for the SIS.

'Call that phone number and Mr Tweed will confirm who I am. His personal assistant.'

'Line's engaged,' the dreary woman informed her after calling the number. 'If you'd like to sit over there I'll try
again when I can.'

No good telling the old trout she was in a hurry. That
would only slow her down even more. Paula sat on the
couch, facing the desk from the far wall, placed her
briefcase
beside her. And I haven't got a book to pass
the time, she thought. Not my day. Checking her watch
she decided she'd have time to go to a deli for a little
sustenance. Not too much. The tea at Brown's was a
major event. I should have plenty of time to get to the
hotel, she decided. I
have
to be there on time - she had
summed up Marienetta as a tigress for punctuality - but
I won't have time to change for drinks with Black Jack. I
don't care. Why should I fuss about a man like that?

An old gentleman with grey hair had entered the hall. He stopped by the desk and began to engage the receptionist in
a long conversation. So no quick second attempt to phone
Tweed. Someone was walking down the upper steps on his
way out. Dr Scale, erect as a martinet. The receptionist
said 'Excuse me,' to the grey-haired man and stood up.

'I hope you found what you needed, Dr Scale.'

Nice to be royalty here,
Paula thought. Scale took not a
blind bit of notice of the receptionist. Instead he swivelled
to his right, bowed, took the seat next to Paula on the
side away from her briefcase. She felt stunned. He placed
a hand on hers, squeezed it gently.

'How very gratifying to find someone who not only
listens to me but acts swiftly on my suggestion.'

'Which is exactly what I am doing. Do you travel much,
Dr Scale?'

'A great deal, my dear. I have recently returned from
the United States.'

'Which part?'

'New England. The weather was disgusting. Icicles were hanging from the gutters of their wooden houses. And they think they do things better than anyone else. I ask you. They don't seem to have heard of brick. But they are a warm friendly people.'

His severe expression had again softened. He smiled
as he gazed at her. What a weird mix you are, she was thinking. Normal and abnormal? He wished her luck and
stood up to go. The receptionist was again on her feet,
calling out to him. He walked out without a word or a
glance in her direction.

At long last the grey-haired man stopped talking, wan
dered up the steps into the library. Paula was marching
grimly back to the desk as the receptionist picked up the
phone. This time she got straight through. More twittering
from the middle-aged woman, a request for a description
of Paula. A voice at the other end, Tweed's, rose loudly.

'For God's sake, woman, I'm a member. Give Miss Grey
the go-ahead . . .'

Paula was walking up the steps before the receptionist
had time to speak to her. She began her arduous search
for Jonathan Wylie's tome,
A History of Executions.
No
attendants were to be seen to help her. She began with
the huge section on Domestic History, which was not arranged in alphabetical order. No luck. By pure chance
she eventually found the volume in Medieval Agriculture.
Someone had put it back in the wrong place.

She ran back down the steps, saw with relief no customer
was standing in front of the receptionist. She placed her
card and the precious volume on the desk.

'I am in a hurry now,' she said pleasantly.

A blank stare. 'We have a very meticulous record sys
tem.'

A large leather-bound ledger was opened. The recep
tionist explained as she slowly wielded a pen. Every
thing had to be noted. Name, address of the borrower,
membership number, date, title, author and the book's
number. Paula stood very still, her stomach quietly rumbling with hunger. She'd have given anything for a drink
of water. The pen kept on scrawling at a snail's pace.
After what seemed hours the receptionist handed Paula
the volume.

'You do understand,' she said in her toneless voice, 'you have to take great care of the book. You see, it is
our only—'

Paula snapped. 'You saw me place the bloody thing
inside my briefcase!'

She stormed out and it was dark. She made her way
to Piccadilly, walked into a sandwich bar, ordered two
toasted teacakes and a cup of tea. Had to leave space for the
corning orgy at Brown's. Before her hands became greasy
she took out the volume, glanced quickly through it. Full of ancient text which she felt she'd be able to decipher - and a
lot of the most horrific drawings illustrating what they did
to people in those days. Including the execution of Charles
I. She slipped it back into the briefcase as tea arrived.

By hurrying after her modest meal she reached Brown's
at 5.45 p.m. No sign of Marienetta. She'd beaten her to
it. A quick trip to the ladies' to tidy up, then back up to
the lobby. A minute later, at 5.55 p.m., Marienetta walked
in, wearing a smart blue two-piece business suit, a white
blouse buttoned to the collar and a pair of Ferragamo
shoes.

'Why don't we collaborate on investigating this brutal
murder of Adam Holgate?' Marienetta asked Paula in
her direct manner.

They were seated in the second lounge, where you could smoke after six. Marienetta had already lit up after offering
a cigarette to Paula, which she declined. No one was near
them so they could really talk.

'Might be a good idea if we exchanged some infor
mation,' Paula said cautiously.

'Right, me first. I didn't like him. I didn't trust him.
Broden thought he was a jewel, but Adam had a way of
getting round people. Even a brute like Broden.'

'What caused your mistrust?'

'Mind if I eat and talk at the same time?' Marienetta
suggested as the cake stand, a four-decker, was laid in
front of them. 'Bad manners, I know, but I haven't eaten
since breakfast. Why? I found out Adam was poking his
nose into departments that had nothing to do with him.
Once I caught him photographing some highly personal
records. He slipped the camera into his pocket when he
realized I was close. I challenged him and he
turned
so aggressive - a tactic. Swore it was a tobacco tin I'd
seen. He did smoke a pipe. I didn't make an issue of it
because at that moment Broden walked in, but I ordered
the guard on the door to search him when he left. That happens at times. The clever so-and-so hadn't got the
camera on him - probably hidden it in a locked drawer. But I'm damned sure he had the film in his socks or
somewhere.'

'So you think he was a spy?'

Marienetta gave a ravishing smile. 'Not for you, I hope.'

'Certainly not. When he worked for us Tweed ban
ished him to Communications in a building further down
the Crescent.' She felt she had to contribute something.
'Howard, our Director, hired him while Tweed was away.'

Marienetta smiled again. 'He'd never have got past
Tweed. I met Howard at a party. A nice man but without
a tenth of Tweed's brains.'

'He's very good at smoothing down high-ranking civil
servants, very at home in Whitehall.'

'Where again they haven't a tenth of Tweed's brains.
We exist, even prosper, in spite of our lousy government.
I once talked to a Foreign Office diplomat about Laos. He
hadn't a clue where Laos was.' Marienetta spoke very fast,
chuckled a lot.

'Why do you think Holgate was roaming around near
Abbey Grange, Roman's country house near Bray?' Paula
asked.

'No goddamn idea. Roman decided he'd blundered,
buying that old pile to entertain businessmen from abroad.
It's empty. I tell him he should sell the place, take what he can get for it. He says he will. In due course when he's not
so busy. What do the autopsy records on Holgate show?'

'No idea. Colonel Crow won't let us see them.'

'Colonel Crow. A pompous pig. Crawls to anyone who
can do him some good. Met him once. He complimented me on what I was wearing. I'd just thrown on an old rag.
Is Tweed still investigating the Holgate murder?' she asked
quickly.

Watch it, Paula warned herself. 'He does have a lot of
other problems to attend to,' she replied.

Marienetta smiled cynically. 'I can see why you are the
key member of Tweed's staff. Long ago, like met like.'

'Where did Holgate live?'

'In some dump somewhere in Pimlico. Since he took
it over the value has soared. He was boasting to me
about it. Adam loved money. I spotted that when I inter
viewed him for the post in security at ACTIL. Broden
overruled my doubts and anyway the job was for his
department.'