The Cauldron (22 page)

'Do you know anything about Moloch's early career?'

'Yes. Cheryl told me - he confided in her. When he came to the States from Belgium as a young man he was clever. He built up from nothing a successful electronics business. Other companies combined to ruin him, to put him out of business as a competitor. He had to start all over again. He struck me as a man with tremendous energy. He devotes his life to enlarging AMBECO, works through the night and needs very little sleep. He's like a man obsessed.'

Tweed felt his brain jerk slightly. She had just given him another large piece of the jigsaw which slotted into place. He felt no elation. The grim theory he had slowly worked out was too horrific for him to feel pleased.

'You have no idea at all as to who was responsible for their deaths?' he enquired.

'It could be The Accountant.'

'Who?'

'In my business we hear a lot on the grapevine. There is a strong rumour that an assassin called The Accountant has killed several people. He works meticulously, always prepares the ground carefully for an assassination. We have no idea who he - or she - is.'

'I have heard that rumour.' He paused. Linda was showing signs that jet lag was at last catching up with her. 'You've been very helpful. Talking is very tiring after a long flight.'

'Yes, it is. I think I'd better go back to my hotel and get some sleep. How can I get in touch with you, Mr Tweed?'

He produced from his wallet one of the cards carrying his name as Chief Claims Investigator for General & Cumbria Assurance. He wrote the phone number on the back, handed it to her.

'If I'm not in and you want to tell me something please give my assistant, Monica, the details. She has worked for me for years and is discreet and completely trustworthy.'

"Thank you - and for your sympathy.'

'I don't remember giving you any.'

"The way you've talked to me - and not said more than you had to about my sisters. I like your approach. I suppose you were never a private investigator?'

'No.' He smiled. "That is a profession I have never engaged in. Would you please call me if you are thinking of returning to the States?'

'Promise.'

"Then I'll get you a taxi to take you back to your hotel.'

She sat very still. Again he waited patiently. He sensed she was deciding whether to say something. She lowered her voice, despite the fact that they were the only people in the lounge.

'When Moloch came to the States from Belgium, before he set up the company which his rivals used tough methods to smash, he was an accountant.'

14

Returning immediately to Park Crescent, Tweed phoned Buchanan to give his report.

'Roy, Linda Standish is a private investigator in Carmel...'

Buchanan heard him out without a single interruption. Tweed gave every single detail of the conversation from memory. Across the office Monica was recording what he said.

"That's it,' Tweed concluded.

'Doesn't take us a lot further.' Buchanan commented. 'But at least we know the identity of the victims. And again it all goes back to Moloch.'

'Possibly. I think it takes us a great deal further.'

'You do? How?'

'It fits in with a theory I have evolved. No, I can't let you know yet. I could be wrong.'

"That's right. Go cryptic on me. Well, thanks for the data. I'll inform the press that someone came forward, identified them by their names, which I'll give out.'

'Good idea ...'

On that note Tweed ended their conversation. Monica smiled wrily.

'Nice to know I'm not the only one who finds you play it close to the chest. Oh, I've been on the phone again to my contact in the States. Moloch does have an accountant.'

'Has he got a name?' Tweed asked quickly.

'I was about to tell you. A man called Byron Landis. He works at Black Ridge, lives on the premises.'

'Interesting. I wonder how VB is reacting to the newspaper stories?'

At Black Ridge Joel Brand entered VB's office at three in the morning. The small man behind the desk was talking to Byron Landis, his accountant, after studying certain balance sheets. He was known for his attention to detail. No one could be employed in his vast organization without being thoroughly vetted by the Intelligence Bureau he had set up. No one earning fifty thousand dollars or more could be taken on the payroll before Moloch had personally interviewed them.

'So you see, Mr President...' Landis began.

'I've told you before never to address me in that way. It sounds so stuffy.'

'Sorry, but anyone in your position in America - even in a smaller outfit - is called by his title.'

'I am only in America physically, not mentally. I am a European, a Belgian. Now, get on with it, Landis.'

'I was only going to remark that, as you see, we have cut costs considerably. Except in the Armaments and explosives companies, which you vetoed for cost-cutting.'

'I've already seen that.'

Byron Landis was a small plump man in his forties. He had a bald head, wore steel-rimmed spectacles and had a precise manner. Joel Brand, who stood waiting impatiently with a sheaf of newspapers under his arm, called Landis Old Fussy. The staff working under Landis would not have agreed with the description. They knew him as a hard man. Landis also had a strange walk - he moved slowly with both feet turned outwards in a duck waddle.

"That's all, Byron,' Moloch said. 'Joel is bursting with impatience as usual.'

Brand was wearing an expensive lightweight business suit, a shirt buttoned down at the collar, a tie featuring a crocodile with jaws open and smart shoes. Newman would hardly have recognized him - his shaggy hair was neatly trimmed and brushed and, despite his tough face, certain women found him irresistible. Moloch liked his staff to dress well on duty at Black Ridge.

'You're not going to like this,' Brand said aggressively, sitting in the chair opposite to Moloch.

'Why not let me decide that for myself?'

'Well, take a look.' He shoved the
San Francisco Chronicle
and the
Monterey Herald
across the desk. 'Now the world knows what happened to Cheryl and Julie Standish.'

'And so do I.'

Moloch, a quick reader, had scanned the stories, looked at the photos. Then he checked the date of both newspapers.

'How did these get here so quickly?'

'Guy from our office in San Francisco always gets the paper from their office soon as it's printed, before it hits the streets. He flew down here to Monterey airport, had the smarts to call in at the
Herald
.'

'I like my people to use their heads.' Moloch replied in the same mild tone.

'Jesus! Thought you'd be cracked out of your mind. And there's more to come. London knows, too. This stuff was delivered through our mailbox. Don't know why the alarm didn't go off.'

'Because, Joel, we had monitors to neutralize the alarm stolen from our factory in Des Moines. You really must keep yourself up to date.'

'I'll check it out.'

'You should have done that already.'

'What about the Standish sisters?' Brand wanted to know.

'I'm horrified,' Moloch said quietly. 'Sounds to me like the work of The Accountant. When are you going to track that killer down? You've been working on it long enough.'

'He's shadowy. Moves like a ghost. But you still don't seem to realize the press are going to be down on us like an avalanche. They
did
work here - those two sisters.'

'So phone Des Moines. Get them to fly two more monitors to us immediately. In the meantime, open the gates to no one we don't want to see. Also instruct the telephone operator not to put anyone through to me unless he knows them. And send Ethan to me.'

'Ethan went home.'

'Home? He sleeps here.'

'Mrs Benyon phoned, told him to go to her house.'

'I see.'

Moloch was on his feet, he gave his orders as he slipped on a heavy astrakhan-collared coat.

'Tell Martinez to get the car ready to drive me to my stepmother's house. In future the operator is to accept no more calls from Mrs Benyon. If he slips up he will be fired immediately.'

'Martinez?' Brand sounded surprised. 'He's the chief of the guards, not your chauffeur.'

'Do as I tell you.' Moloch snapped. 'We may have to carry Ethan out of the house c'

This time Moloch instructed his driver to take the Lincoln Continental straight up to the house quietly. He got out, shivered. Even in California the night air is chilly. He let himself in through the triangular front door, again with his key. Again he heard Mrs Benyon's raised voice as Martinez followed him inside.

'Ethan, damn you! I said you sleep here from now on. Not under the constant surveillance of my dictatorial stepson,' she screeched.

Dictatorial? Moloch smiled grimly to himself. If anyone was dictatorial it was his detested stepmother. Walking into the room, he paused. Mrs Benyon, so intent on cursing her son, hadn't seen him enter. She was once more equipped with her two unnecessary walking sticks as she went on.

'Ethan, do what I say this moment. Your room is already prepared. Go up to it.'

'Mother, I can't...'

'You will obey me!' she screamed at him.

Moloch had had enough. He walked swiftly forward, snatched both sticks out of her hands. He repeated his previous performance, breaking them, hurling the shattered pieces into the fire.

She jumped up, ran forward as he turned, grasped him round the throat. He reached up to remove the hands as she screamed at him.

'I'll strangle you, you bastard!'

It was just the reaction he had hoped to provoke. Glancing at Ethan as he removed her hands, he saw the look of amazement on his face. A look replaced by an expression of fury.

'Mother.' he shouted, 'all this time you've fooled me - to intimidate me. I'll kill you for this ...'

He walked out of the room as his stepmother stood still, uncertain what to do. She stared at her stepson with loathing.

'I know what you're up to at Black Ridge. You did that deliberately, curse you!' She stabbed two fingers towards his eyes. 'I'll sabotage what you are up to. If it's the last thing I do, I'll ruin you. Did you hear me? I'll ruin you ...'

She was talking to herself. Moloch had left the room, gesturing to Martinez to follow him. Inside the car he gave him his instructions.

Put guards on the house. Make sure she doesn't leave the place. Let her take walks on the terrace to get some fresh air. Make sure she has plenty of food. She can prepare it herself from now on. Stop the maid from entering the house in the morning. Give her a thousand dollars, tell her Mrs Benyon has hired someone else...'

Ethan had driven on ahead to Black Ridge. Moloch found him in his room. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring into the distance.

'Get some sleep,' Moloch advised. 'It will not seem so bad in the morning.'

'I'll kill her...'

'Concentrate on your important work tomorrow. You are a remarkable scientist. The project must continue at top speed. Have a bath, it will calm you down.'

'I will kill her...'

These were the last words from him Moloch heard that night as he closed the door and went back to his office. Settling behind his desk, he felt relieved. At long last he had destroyed Mrs Benyon's hideous hold over Ethan.

From a window high up in an unlit room a man had watched Moloch's departure, his later return. The accountant, Byron Landis, closed the curtains, switched on the light in his room.

At 4 a.m., the darkest hour in California, it was noon in Cornwall. By arrangement, Paula pulled up her car alongside Newman's Merc, in the square at Mawnan Smith, where the shops were lined along two sides. Newman was sitting in his front passenger seat with the window open as she lowered hers.

'What did you think of Grenville?' he asked her.

'I couldn't see anything strange or suspect about him,' she replied. 'At first I thought he was the typical Colonel Bump type. But when I danced with him he was charming and amusing. I also found him more intelligent than I had expected.'