Cross of Fire (22 page)

'You follow the Burgoyne woman wherever she goes. I
want a detailed report on where she does go. Above all,
who she meets. Names, addresses. Here is some money to
finance the trip. She's flying back home to Britain. Take that
motorcycle, drive like hell to GHQ, change into civilian
clothes - your English ones. Be back at the Villa Forban in
half an hour ...'

Berthier had used the same forged passport and driving licence he'd used on previous trips to Britain. Following
Burgoyne aboard her flight to Paris, then her flight to
London Airport, he'd collected the Ford Sierra ordered by
phone during his wait at Charles de Gaulle Airport for the
London flight.

For some reason he couldn't fathom Burgoyne had driven
in a car waiting for her straight to the Brudenell Hotel in
Aldeburgh. He had registered in the name of James Sanders,
wearing his tinted glasses and a trilby hat to conceal his fair hair. If anyone joshed him about wearing dark glasses in November he had his explanation ready.

'I've weak eyes. Strong light hurts them ...'

Lamy had trained his protege well. Immediately he'd
arrived in his room Berthier had locked the door. Moving as
swiftly as he could, he'd taken the bottle of hair colourant from his case, had gone into the bathroom and applied the
liquid carefully. He used a drier attached to the wall,
checked his appearance in the mirror, hurried downstairs.

His fear that Burgoyne would have gone mounted when
he couldn't see her in the lounge. He strolled into the bar
and she was standing at the counter, collecting glasses of
champagne, taking them to the table where the attractive
raven-haired girl sat. Berthier had ordered his first gin and tonic, sat at a corner table. The two women chatted a while like old friends.

Berthier was confident Burgoyne wouldn't recognize
him. Despite the fact he had stood in her room at the Villa while he'd waited to escort de Forge to his car.

The colourant transformed his appearance. The tinted
glasses completed the masquerade. Besides, Burgoyne had
seen him in uniform before. Wearing civilian gear could
make the same man unrecognizable. He had just finished
his gin and tonic when Burgoyne put on her coat and
walked out of the bar.

Berthier followed her as she left by the steps leading to
the back entrance on to the street behind the hotel. Her car,
a Jaguar, was parked further up the street. He ran to the
Ford Sierra, slotted in next to the entrance. As she drove off Berthier was a discreet distance behind her.

No other traffic was about as she turned left in the cold night down a narrow side street, then right into the equally
deserted High Street for a very short distance before turning left again and climbing a curving hill. Here it was all gloom
and high walls and the odd glimpse of lights in a large
house down a drive. The part of Aldeburgh where the well-
off lived.

Berthier slowed, driving only with his sidelights on. The
Jaguar abruptly swung left off
the road, vanished. On this
side of the road Berthier saw there was a wide grass verge with here and there occasional trees. He swung his Ford on to the verge, switched off his sidelights, the engine, got out
of the car.

The bitter cold of the November night hit him. As he
walked slowly to where the Jaguar had disappeared he
turned up the collar of his English jacket, shoved his hands
inside his pockets. On either side of the gap she had driven through stood stone pillars, topped with lead decorations of
old sailing ships. The imposing residence was called Admiralty House.

Berthier peered round a pillar up the gravel drive and
saw a small Georgian mansion. The lights were on behind the uncurtained windows of a room to the right of the front door. Berthier saw an elderly man with wisps of white hair
pouring something from a bottle, standing very erect. The
Burgoyne woman appeared, closed the curtains. Just before she shut out the view Berthier saw the lights from a chandelier gleaming on her mane of blonde hair.

He went back to his car, treading on damp turf. Seated
behind the wheel, he tried to puzzle it out. Lamy had
obviously expected she would go to meet a lover. Berthier doubted whether the old boy fitted that category.

He sat clasping his strong hands, began squeezing the middle finger of his left hand, massaging the knuckle absent-mindedly. When, after half an hour, it seemed obvious she wasn't going anywhere else that night, he drove back to the Brudenell, descending from the highest point in Aldeburgh.

Paula described tersely the visit to the scene of the crime before producing the ring. Taking out a handkerchief, she unwrapped it carefully and presented the ring to Tweed.

They were alone in his bedroom. He had had coffee and sandwiches sent up and sipped
from his cup as he
held the ring in the palm of his hand. Putting the cup down, he slipped the signet ring on his middle finger. It slithered
off.

'You see,' Paula repeated, 'it links up with what the pathologist said. The strangler has large hands. That ring can only fit a man with large hands.'

'The Cross of Lorraine. Interesting.' Tweed commented, using a paper napkin to clean off more mud. 'It could be significant. On the other hand ...'

'A link with France.' Paula insisted. 'So why do you
sound sceptical? I've told you where it was found and how.'

'At this stage I'm keeping an open mind. We have a lot
of data, quite a few pieces of the jigsaw, but some are still missing.'

'Well, what have we got so far?' Paula demanded.

'Briefly, Lasalle's belief that an insurrection is imminent
in France. Organized by the infamous
Cercle Noir,
with the driving force possibly General de Forge. That theory may be
backed up by Newman's riot experience in Bordeaux.'

'You sound very sceptical.' she repeated.

'Too early to interpret the data positively. I could be wrong. Then we have Kuhlrnann warning us about the
Siegfried
underground movement in Germany. That
could
be
linked with events in France. And don't forget the mysteri
ous Kalmar, possibly the strangler of Karin and Francis
Carey. I have the strongest feeling he is the key. Locate,
identify Kalmar, and we'd know what was really going on.'
He switched topics, his mind moving swiftly. 'I'll take this
signet ring. You realize it must be handed over to Buchanan soon? We can't hide evidence in a murder case.'

'I could give it to Buchanan now...'

'No. I want the Engine Room at Park Crescent to make a perfect copy. Then it must be given to Buchanan. Does he
know I'm here?'

'I'm sure he doesn't.'

'We'll keep it that way. I'll stay in my room tonight. Then
leave early in the morning. I'll drive back to London in my
own car. I must get back to Park Crescent. But first I'd better
talk to Victor Rosewater, warn him that I'll be giving this
ring to the CID. He'll have time to prepare his story.'

'I'd better go and fetch him now. Before he goes in to
dinner with Bob.'

'I agree. In a minute.' Tweed studied the signet ring
again. 'I have the oddest feeling I've seen this somewhere
recently. No idea where. It may come back to me. And,
Paula, exercise the greatest care when you interview Lord Dane Dawlish tomorrow.'

'Newman and Marler will be there, too - at the shoot.'

'You must still take great care,' he repeated. 'Monica has now completed her dossier on Dawlish.'

'Why?'

'Because he's armaments. Because he lives in the area
where Karin was murdered. Probably he's nothing to do with what we're after. Just checking. One more thing I'd
like you to do.' He gazed at the wall. 'And again proceed with caution.'

'Understood. What is it?'

'There's that Frenchman here - if Newman heard what
he muttered under his breath when he stubbed his toe. So
don't forget to meet him if you can. Find out what he is
doing here. Now, wheel up Captain Victor Rosewater. Tell him I'm security chief with an insurance outfit.'

'So the best thing, I'm sure, is for me to tell Chief Inspector
Buchanan I discovered the signet ring,' Rosewater said
firmly.

He had just listened to Tweed's suggestion and reacted
positively. Tweed studied Rosewater, remembering Paula
had remarked he'd make excellent material as a new
memb
er of the SIS. Certainly he was very quick in grasping a situation, Tweed thought, as Rosewater continued.

'I'll tell him neither Paula nor Newman knew I'd found it. I shoved it straight into my pocket so I could study it
later. After all, it was my wife who was murdered. I have
an obvious interest in identifying the man who killed poor
Karin.'

'Buchanan will give you hell.' Tweed warned. 'Suppressing evidence and all that.'

'I can handle him. Remember, I've had some experience at interrogation. You're giving me the ring now?'

'It's locked away in a safe place. And I think it would be
better if we let a few days elapse before Buchanan confronts
you. I may decide to be present myself.'

Rosewater settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
He watched Tweed for a whole minute before he put the
question.

'Paula said you were with an insurance outfit. Security
doesn't seem to go with that, if you don't mind my saying
so.'

'Not at all.' Tweed smiled cryptically. 'We specialize in insuring wealthy targets against kidnapping.' he lied easily. 'That's confidential. On occasions we have to negotiate with kidnappers who have snatched a client - a tricky operation.'

'So I can imagine.'

'Our territory is the whole of Western Europe. The active
areas are France and Germany. So I travel a lot. Certain
German industrialists are especially nervous about this mys
terious
Siegfried
organization which has sprung up.'

'You mean they might try to get funds that way?'

'Exactly. Again, very confidential. Even more so as you travel a lot.'

'My job teaches me to keep my mouth shut. Going back
to that signet ring, will I get warning when the police are going to be informed?'

Tweed produced his calling card showing him as Chief Claims Investigator, General & Cumbria Assurance, with only the telephone number. Tweed watched him as he slid the card into a wallet.

'You'll be staying here for the next few days I assume?' Tweed enquired. 'So I know I can reach you?'

Rosewater grinned for the first time. 'I'll be available. I
plan to mosey round this strange old town a bit. Now I'd
better get downstairs for dinner with Bob Newman.'

When Paula left Tweed she paid a brief visit to her room
to check on her appearance. Downstairs she found the youngish man with tinted glasses Newman had described
in the bar. He occupied a corner table by himself, a glass in
front of him. It was then Paula
remembered he'd been
sitting at the same table when she'd been talking to Jean
Burgoyne.