The Cauldron (50 page)

Tweed was scribbling more figures on a sheet to keep himself alert when he saw the toilet door open behind him in the mirror. A hooded figure emerged, holding a garrotte. Tweed was reaching for the open drawer when the hooded figure's right foot slammed into the drawer. Tweed snatched his hand out of the way just in time before his fingers were broken.

He tried to push his chair back with a violent lurch, but the assassin had both feet against the back legs of the chair. Tweed was trapped. He jerked his gloved hand up to his neck. A second later the garrotte swept over his head, pressed against his glove, ripped through the cloth, came up against the metal lid.

Tweed used the gloved hand to force the garrotte away from his neck. Then he felt the wire touch the other side of his neck where there was no protection. His head was going to be severed from his body.

The bulky bedroll against the wall came to life. Paula slid out of it. Lying on the floor she raised her Browning. She fired one random bullet. It startled the assassin who leapt back, giving her an open target. She pressed the trigger again and again. The magazine held nine rounds. The hooded figure staggered back towards the door. She was amazed at how hard her target was to kill. It was still stumbling back towards the half-open door as she continued shooting, emptying the magazine as it reached the top of the staircase.

Outside Newman was nearly at the top of the staircase when be saw the figure begin to fall over backwards down it. He grabbed it round the waist, heaved it up and back inside the room. It was a dead weight. He pushed it forward and the corpse slammed down on the floor, one hand fixed to the garrotte. Closing the door, Newman reached down.

Tweed was on his feet, using his gloved hand to screw up the papers which he rammed into his pocket. The mirror went into the other pocket, then he turned round, the Walther in his hand.

'Who is it?' Paula asked, breathless.

Newman carefully took hold of the hood. The figure was sprawled on its side. Pulling off the woolly hood -with slits for the eyes - Newman exposed the face. The face of Byron Landis.

37

'Byron Landis!' Paula exclaimed. 'How strange. He called himself The Accountant and he is one.'

'A neat piece of bluff,' Tweed commented. 'He thought that as he was an accountant no one would dream he'd use the phrase he did to describe himself.'

'So you were sensible,' Newman said. 'I thought you'd set yourself up as a target without protection.'

'You're wrong,' Tweed told him. 'I did come here on my own - I was worried any sign of back-up would frighten off the assassin. Then Paula turned up on her own, wearing loafers, as you see. So she made no sound as she entered the apartment. I saw her in the mirror, put my finger to my lips so she wouldn't speak. I had an idea the killer might be hiding in the loo. Then I gestured for her to leave. She shook her head, saw the sleeping bag, got inside it and waited. I couldn't argue with her, as I wanted to. The Accountant - if he was in the loo - would have heard. Paula just saved my life.'

'So the quiet, unassuming Landis was the serial killer.' Newman replied.

'He was a sadist - I think he enjoyed killing people in the hideous way he did. But professional assassins are always well paid for their dirty work. Before we get out of here - which we should do quickly - check his pockets, Bob.'

Tampering with the evidence,' Paula joked nervously.

It had been a nerve-racking time for her - waiting inside the sleeping bag. Her ordeal had ended when she pulled herself swiftly out and began shooting at Landis. It startled her how many bullets it took to kill him, but she knew that once she started firing, Tweed - her main anxiety - was safe. Now she felt cool and in command of herself.

'What have we here?' Newman said partly to himself. 'And here...'

Out of each breast pocket of Landis's jacket he extracted a fat envelope. He flicked open the unsealed flap, showed the contents to Tweed and Paula. A thick sheaf of banknotes. Putting on his gloves - he had dropped out the metal plate - Tweed riffled through the one-hundred-dollar bills.

'I'd say there is twenty-five thousand dollars here. Now let's see the other one.' Again he riffled through banknotes. 'Another twenty-five thousand would be my guess. Landis was paid fifty thousand for taking a life. The question is who was the paymaster?'

Tweed used his gloved hands to rub the outside of the envelopes vigorously, destroying any fingerprints Newman might have left. Then he bent down and inserted the envelopes back inside the corpse's pockets. Straightening up, he looked down at the body.

'Well, there's all the evidence the police need. And he's holding the garrotte. I'll make yet another anonymous call - this time to Detective Anderson. But only when we're well clear of this place and I can use a public phone.'

Newman drove the English woman's Cadillac he had parked on a nearby corner, behind their own parked Merc, and the BMW. They stopped many blocks away when Tweed pulled up outside a call booth.

First, he phoned Anderson, speaking through a silk handkerchief, breaking the call when Anderson demanded his name. Then he called Black Ridge. Again it was Moloch who came on the line, which suggested to Tweed something had happened and Moloch was monitoring every call.

'You know my voice. Don't mention my name.' Tweed rapped out quickly. 'I have serious news for you. The Accountant is dead as a doornail, shot by someone. Want to know who he was?'

'Yes,' replied Moloch, who never wasted a word.

'Your accountant, Byron Landis. He had fifty thousand dollars in his pocket - to kill someone. Now who in your organization has that kind of money? Apart from yourself. And the police have been informed. I'm sure you'll be receiving a call from Detective Anderson.'

He broke the connection before Moloch could reply. Inside the booth he took out the tin lid he had dropped out of his glove. Again he used the glove to wipe it - this time clean of his own fingerprints. Leaving the booth, he dropped the lid inside a nearby litter bin.

The three cars arrived back at Spanish Bay with an interval between their being parked. Newman went in search of the English woman.

'Give Marler your Browning to get rid of.' Tweed advised Paula. He smiled drily. 'I'm sure he'll have a replacement to give you. Marler always looks after you so well.'

'You made two calls from that booth.' Paula told him.

"The second was to Moloch. Reporting the identity of The Accountant, the fact that he was dead. The only fact I omitted was the location of the body. Now Moloch can't arrange for its swift removal. Also I told him that I'd informed Anderson, that he could expect a call from the detective.'

'What was the idea of that?'

'Just something to rattle his nerve. Throw the enemy off balance and he may get confused.'

Moloch was further disturbed by Tweed's message. He took immediate action. Putting in a call to a certain powerful official in Sacramento, the state capital, he was blunt and forceful.

'Jeff? VB here. Get moving on this one. A Detective Anderson, presumably stationed in Carmel, is about to 'cause me trouble. He's working on the Standish murder. If you want to stay on the payroll, have him taken off the case. In his place put some moron who stumbles over his own feet. Got it?'

'I'll take action immediately. Is there a bonus in it for me?'

'Jeff, you received a large payment from Joel recently. You gave a receipt, made out to Joel, as you have done in the past. And you were photographed from a building opposite as you took the pay-off. Would you like the photograph - and all previous receipts - to be sent to the
San Francisco Chronicle
?'

'Sorry, I'll get on it now ...'

Moloch slammed down the phone. Byron Landis? Now he had yet another major problem on his mind. For the first time in his life Vincent Bernard Moloch was beginning to feel overwhelmed.

Ethan opened the heavy door in the corridor at Black Ridge, the door leading to the underground chamber Moloch had shown Tweed. Closing it on the other side, he ran down the iron staircase into the chamber.

His face was beginning to look cadaverous, brought about by the mental tension he was labouring under. There was no one else in the vaulted chamber as he checked a machine he had not shown Tweed. It was an advanced strong-motion seismograph. The starter, pendulum and timing circuits were located on the left, the recording drum and the film on the right.

He ran his hand through his hair, dishevelled even more than usual as nervous excitement gripped him. The drum was recording steeper vertical jumps, forecasting a major quake along the San Moreno fault. From experience he knew it might be a while before the earthquake struck.

Going to the door, which Moloch had described as a safe, he produced a key, unlocked it, slid it sideways, revealing a large metal cargo elevator. Stepping inside, he pressed the button which locked it so no one could follow him, then pressed another button. The elevator began to descend into the bowels of the earth.

'Get on with it! Get on with it!' Ethan fumed aloud.

It always irritated him the time it took for the elevator to reach its destination. He stood chewing the nails of his left hand with impatience, his strange eyes glowing. When the elevator eventually stopped he pressed another button. The rear side opened and fluorescent lights in the roof of the tunnel automatically illuminated.

Ethan left the elevator, stepped aboard a powerful engine which was linked to a series of flatcars behind it. Starting the motor, he travelled along the single rail laid at the base of the tunnel, which had curved walls. This was one quality he would grant the Americans - with any form of construction they were experts and worked like beavers.

There were similar tunnels beneath each of the fake observatories AMBECO's Engineering Division had constructed along the coast of California. All were linked to the tunnel Ethan was now travelling along in the small cargo train. He stopped the engine as he neared the end of the tunnel, got out and entered a small room excavated from the side of the wall.

At the end of the room was a huge aperture, filled with an obscene black object like the nose of a massive shell. It was, in fact, a Xenobium bomb.

Ethan ran across, stroked the nose of the immense bomb. He began speaking to himself although there was no audience to hear him.

'You're going to work for me, my little baby.
Soon! Soon!! Soon!!!
'

His voice had risen to a shriek which echoed weirdly along the tomblike tunnel. He then checked the charter-recorder, a less sophisticated device than the master machine in the upper chamber. With delight he observed it was recording the same steep vertical jumps as its master.

'It's coming,' he exulted. 'I'll kill Mother. I'll kill California...'

He returned by the same route, reversing the cargo train which had carried sections of the bomb to its resting place. Technicians from Des Moines had assembled the sections into the completed bomb under his supervision.

Reaching the corridor at Black Ridge, he ran to his office, locked the door and opened the secret safe he had had installed while VB was in Britain. Inside were two levers let into the rear wall, connected to the master system. One lever detonated the series of Xenobium bombs hidden below the observatories along the coast. The other lever set in motion the Xenobium bomb buried deep in the Pacific seabed below the
Baja
.

Both systems had a five-minute delay once the levers were pulled. Giving Ethan five minutes to run and board the chopper always waiting in the hangar behind Black Ridge. It was his escape system.

He touched each lever, gently, lovingly, closed the safe, shut the panel which concealed it. Then he did a little dance round his office, trembling with joy.

38

In his living room at Spanish Bay Tweed was examining once more the map Ethan Benyon had drawn showing the route of the San Moreno fault. Seated on another couch Paula and Newman watched him, exchanged occasional glances with each other.

'Are we waiting for something to happen?' Newman asked eventually.

'We're waiting for someone to arrive. We have eliminated The Accountant, now I want to identify the spy I'm convinced VB has here - just as he had the same person in Cornwall.'

'How do I come into this?' enquired Marler, standing by the window. 'Do I twist his arm?'

'No. You close the curtains when I tell you to. We have to build up an atmosphere of terror to unnerve the two people I shall be grilling.'

'No good asking him who they are.' Paula commented drily.