Cross of Fire (29 page)

Isabelle studied the street. She watched the doorway
where the two DST men had hidden when she had last been
here with Newman. No sign of anyone. The temperature outside was close to freezing. A woman shopper hurried
along the street, stoop-shouldered, huddled against the cold,
carrying two plastic bags. No one else. Yes, she had got
away with it.

She walked back across the living room to her bedroom, switched on the light after drawing the curtains. It took her
only a minute to burrow under a drawer of her under
clothes, to find the precious brooch. Wrapping it in a slip, she noticed the door to the living room was ajar a foot, so
the light would be shining through into the uncurtained
living room. Pushing the brooch inside her coat pocket, she ran across the room, closed the door, switched off the light.

She stood with her back leant against it, waiting for her
eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Really she should
have brought some kind of weapon to defend herself. She
waited a little longer, opened the door and made her way
into the bathroom. Taking a canister of hair spray off the
glass ledge, she removed the cap, slipped it into her pocket,
glad she was leaving. In her ears rang Newman's warning.

She was approaching the door out of the apartment when
someone knocked on the door. She froze. Her mother had
nothing to do with the neighbours, didn't speak to anyone
else in the building. The knocking was repeated more vigorously, urgently. She stiffened herself, took a deep breath.

'Who is it?' she called out.

'Plumber. One of your radiators is leaking, flooding the
apartment below.'

'Not from this one,' she called back, giving herself time
to think.

'Oh yes, it is,' the voice insisted. 'A plumber can trace the
source of a leak. It's in your apartment. Water is pouring down the walls below.'

It had happened once before, a long time ago. When she was a little girl. She remembered watching the plumber working. And she couldn't go round to check. That would mean switching on all the lights. Which would be a give away to anyone watching the apartment from outside.

She inserted the key very quietly, turning the lock. She
hesitated before removing the chain, then decided to get it
over with. She stood back a short distance from the door,
the
flashlight in her left hand, forced herself to call out.

'The door's unlocked ...'

It opened slowly until it was wide open. She switched on her flashlight. Two men in trench coats stood framed in the
doorway. The two DST men who had taken Henri away
from the Bar Miami. The two fake DST men - as Newman had warned her - who had been involved in Henri's murder at the Gare St Jean. She went ice-cold with hate. The taller
man held up a hand to shield his eyes from the flashlight
and grinned.

'We thought you'd be back. You're coming with us. We
are DST

She aimed the spray she was holding in her right hand,
pressed the button, moved it in a swift arc, spraying both of them in the eyes. The taller one swore foully, clawed at his
eyes. Isabelle lowered her head, jumped forward, butted
him in the chest with all her strength. He staggered back
wards as she kept on charging him like a bull. His back
broke the banister rail. The impetus of her enraged charge
toppled him over. He screamed as he fell down the drop
two floors to the concrete basement.

Isabelle swung round. The other smaller man still had
his hands over his eyes. She grabbed a handful of his hair,
pulled his head forward. Instinctively he jerked backwards
a fraction, which was what she was expecting. She changed
her tactics, pushed with all her force, smashing his skull
against the hard edge of the door frame. The sound of bone
meeting wood was loud. He slumped to the floor. She thrust the canister and her flashlight into her pockets, stood, took
hold of his inert heels, dragged him to the gap in the
banister, heaved his legs over the edge, levered his body
after them. He made no sound as he followed his com
panion. She heard a distant thud.

Locking the door, she left the building by the rear stair
case. Settling herself behind the wheel of her car, she sucked
in deep breaths. She must drive normally. Near the Gare St
Jean she saw an empty parking slot, a public phone booth
near by. She drove into the slot, locked the car, walked
quickly to the booth. Inside she used her flashlight to check the number of the Prefecture in Bordeaux. When the police operator answered she spoke forcefully.

'I have to report a very serious crime - attempted mur
der. It has just taken place. Put me through to the Prefect at once. I will speak to no one else. If you keep me waiting I'll
ring off. It concerns the DST...'

In his first-floor office in the old grey stone building with
two wings flanking a central courtyard, only a short walk
from the Meriadeck Centre Commercial, the Prefect frowned
at the mention of the DST, told the operator to put the caller through. Using his foot, he slammed his office door shut.

In the phone booth Isabelle had covered the mouthpiece with the end of her silk scarf to muffle her voice.

'This is the Prefect. Who is calling?'

'Take this address do - immediately ... You've got it?
Good. On the staircase you'll find two fake DST men if you
send a patrol car now.
Now!
There was a struggle. On the
staircase. Both men are unconscious - and they were
involved in the murder of Henri Bayle...'

'Who is this?' the Prefect demanded.

But the phone had gone dead. A short stocky man in a
grey business suit, the Prefect had been chosen for his ability
to take quick decisions. Fake DST? But the name which really alerted him was Henri Bayle - the man murdered
recently at the Gare St Jean.

He locked his office door. Picking up the phone he asked the operator to give him an outside line; And he warned the man that if he listened in he'd be dismissed instantly. Then
he dialled the number of Rene Lasalle, Chief of the DST in
Paris. He got straight through.

'Prefect of Bordeaux here. We have spoken before, as
you'll recall. I've just had an anonymous call about two false
DST men at a Bordeaux address. The caller, who I think was
a woman - voice blurred - said they were involved in the
murder of Henri Bayle ...'

He kept the call brief. Breaking the connection, he picked
up the phone again, ordered two patrol cars to the address.

'Urgently. Break into the building if necessary. And the
men should be armed with automatic weapons ...'

Isabelle drove at speed through the night along the N650, the same route Newman had driven her on their way to
Arcachon. Close to the sea she pulled in by the side of the
highway in the middle of open country outside the village
of Facture. Across the fields she saw an old barn, half-burnt out, the rafters exposed like human ribs.

Reaction set in. She shuddered uncontrollably as though she had a bad chill. She felt frozen. Nerves. Gradually she regained control, taking deep breaths of the icy air coming
in through the window she had opened.

It was only a short distance to Arcachon now. She would stay there from now on. And in the morning she would call
Bob Newman and tell him what had happened. Maybe it
was important.

Chapter Nineteen

The following day at Park Crescent Tweed spent a lot of time listening to verbal reports of what had happened at
Aldeburgh, later questioning all the people assembled in his
crowded office closely.

Crowded into the room were Paula, Newman, Marler,
Butler, and Nield. Monica occupied her desk, quietly taking
notes. They had just finished their reports when Newman
spoke again.

'I've just remembered something I'd completely forgotten
to tell you. It concerns Isabelle...'

'The beautiful titian-haired Isabelle,' Paula teased him.

'I merely described her,' Newman rapped back, irked.

'It was the way you described her.' Paula purred.

'I'd now like to say something important without inter
ruption. It was your description, Paula, of Lord Dawlish's
catamaran,
Steel Vulture. A
while ago, when you told us
about your grim experience when Karin Rosewater was
killed, you said when you both surfaced off Dunwich there
was a strange ship, its prow cut in two...'

'That's right.' Paula leaned forward, serious again.

'Well, when I was walking along the Arcachon front with Isabelle she described a strange vessel which sails in there -a ship "with its prow cut in two". Something very close to that. It sounds exactly like the
Steel Vulture.'

'That is interesting,' Tweed interjected. 'Maybe now we have a link between Suffolk and France.'

'And.' Newman went on, 'she also told me a Lord Dane Dawlish turned up at some party and made a heavy pass at her, which she rebuffed.'

'That's dear Dawlish,' Paula commented. 'And surely we
now have another connection between Aldeburgh and
France?'

'We have what may be a vital one.' Tweed agreed.
'Between Aldeburgh and Arcachon - which is close to
Bordeaux. And Dawlish is armaments. And Lasalle told me
some
unknown organization was supplying General de
Forge with arms and money. It could be fiendishly clever.'

'What could be?' asked Paula.

'Landing arms at Arcachon instead of direct to the port
of Bordeaux where the watch on incoming cargoes will be stricter. Bless Isabelle - and you, Paula.'

'But at what a price.' Paula said nostalgically. 'The price of Karin's life.'

'Victor Rosewater is available then if we need him?'
Tweed asked, changing the subject.

'Yes. He may even track Karin's murderer. He's a tough
character.'

'Describe again to me, Bob, how this signet ring came to be found.' Tweed bent back in his swivel chair and watched
Newman. 'Start from the beginning. Every minute detail...'

He unlocked a drawer half-way through Newman's recall
of what had happened on that dark night on the marshes
with Paula and Rosewater. Tweed took a large silk handker
chief from the drawer, screwed up into a ball, laid it on his
desk.

When Newman had finished, ending with their trip in
the marsh buggy with Buchanan
and Warden to the Brude
nell, he congratulated him on his total recall. Opening the
handkerchief he took out two signet rings, pushed them
across the desk to Paula.

'Which one is the ring Rosewater found under the boat?'

Paula examined them carefully. She supped both
squarely on her middle finger. Both were far too large to
stay on. Puzzled, she looked at them again, shook her head, stared at Tweed.