Rhinoceros (21 page)

'On the couch in the sitting room,' said Paula.

'No. Upstairs in my bedroom . . . be comfortable there,'
Tweed insisted.

'For God's sake,' Marler burst out. 'You don't want to
climb more stairs.'

'I said my bedroom. I can make it myself.'

Tweed released himself from their grip, took hold of the
banister with both hands, began to haul himself up. Paula
and Marler leapt forward, grabbed his arms again, hoisted
him up.

Inside the large bedroom Tweed sat on the edge of the
bed, bent down to take off a shoe. Paula took over the
job and took off bom shoes, his jacket, tie, loosened his
shirt collar. Between them they had him undressed, in
pyjamas and under the sheets, blanket and old-fashioned
eiderdown when the door bell rang.

'That will be Dr Abbott,' said Paula. 'Go down and let
him in, please, Marler . . .'

Tweed had flopped his head on the pillow, closed his eyes. Then he opened them and, despite Paula's protests,
eased himself up on one elbow.

'My pad,' he demanded.

'You don't need that now,' Paula said firmly.

'It's in my pocket. Put it in the bedside drawer. Then
get a fountain pen out of the other pocket. . .'

'You're not going to work . . .'

'Put the pad and pen in the drawer. That's an order.'
As she did so he continued talking. 'No one is to know
about this silliness. Anyone phoning, I'm away, can't
say when I'll be back. Tell all the staff. That's another
order . . .'

He flopped back on the pillow as Dr Abbott came in accompanied by another man carrying a machine. Abbott had a brisk manner, an amiable smile. He knew Tweed
well as a friend.
And he knows how to handle him,
Paula
thought as Abbott spoke.

'What's all this nonsense? Decided to take a holiday at long last, Tweed?'

Paula went downstairs to join Marler in the living room
while the examination took place. She raised her eyes to heaven as she sat down.

'He'll make one hell of a patient.' She told Marler what
Tweed had said. 'See what I mean.'

'That's what keeps Tweed going. Iron will-power . . .'

Abbott joined them about fifteen minutes later while his assistant went out to their car, carrying the machine. Paula
also knew Abbott.

'He's got a virulent fever, a form of flu, but I suspect
it's a rare strain. Has he mixed with anyone from abroad
recently?'

'Yes. He toured the riot areas with us. Every conceivable
nationality.'

'That's where he's picked it up, a quick-acting strain
which I yet have to identify. I've given him an anti
biotic and he's fallen asleep. I wanted him to be put
into a clinic, but there's no budging him. Says he prefers
his own bed, that he won't stand for a lot of chatter
ing nurses fussing round him. Someone should be with
him.'

'I can sleep here on that couch. You've met Monica -
she can come here to relieve me.'

'Monica is a very capable woman. If there's an emerg
ency - I don't expect one - whichever of you is on duty
must call me at once. Now I'm going. I want to get the
results of certain tests.'

'You'll keep me informed I hope?'

'Of course - or Monica if she's here. I have the phone
number. He must not get out of bed. I slipped a bedpan
under it.'

'Dr Abbott, how long do you think this will take until
he has recovered completely?'

'The usual question.' He smiled. 'I never guess. But I will tell you it could be a long haul . . .'

Marler stood up when they were alone. He slipped on his topcoat.

'I'm obeying orders. I'm off to my flat to pack a
few things, then I'll trawl Ebury Street, find that place
where someone tried to bump off Lisa. I may stay in the area for several days. Something has just struck
you.'

'It has. I wonder where the devil that Mark Wendover has got to?'

It was a quiet time in The Hangman's Noose. Herb was
polishing the bar counter when Mark Wendover walked in, asked for a dry Martini. Herb looked dubious.
'I get a hint of American from the way you speak.'
'British mother, American father. Spent half my life here. Educated here and in the States. Get the picture.
What's the problem?'

'Do my best, but Americans are perticular about Martinis. Saw you mixing it with those rioting swine,' Herb
remarked as he took great care over the Martini. 'Saw you with a pal of mine, too. I'm Herb.'

'I'm Mark.' Wendover paused. I'm looking for a man called Delgado. Have a hunch his pad is somewhere round here.'

'You try your luck with some dangerous villains. Don't
know where Delgado kips down - but I've seen him
prowling round 'ere quite a bit. Especially down Reefers
Wharf. That's across the street to the left. Any good? Don't
mind if you won't pay for it.'

Wendover had just sipped his Martini. He licked his lips, took another sip, then raised the glass to the barman.

'This is the best Martini I've had since I was in New York. They couldn't do any better over there.'

'Thanks. Tries to oblige.'

Herb started polishing the bar again. Wendover had
hoped his genuine compliment about the drink would get
Herb talking but the British were careful what they said to
visitors. He tried another tack.

'Just between us, the reason I'm after Delgado is I'm
CIA.' He produced the folder he had deliberately omitted
to hand in when he'd left Langley. The open folder
he held up showed his photograph. He slipped it back
into his pocket. 'I need to know as much about him
as I can.'

'That's just beween you and me. The CIA business.
And so is what I'm going to tell you. Delgado is an ugly customer. He was in 'ere one day, chatting to a pal at this
very bar. I've got good 'earing. He said "I wish we can find out more on Rhinoceros".'

'That's an animal,' Wendover commented.

'I know. But 'e made it sound more like a person. Which I thought was strange. I s'pose that's why it stuck in my mind.'

* * *

Wendover left the pub, headed for Reefers Wharf. On his way he went into a phone box, one of the old red boxlike types, which he preferred to the new modernistic horrors. Newman answered the phone.

'Mark here, Bob. Ev
er heard of a guy called Rhinoceros?'

'Where did you hear that name?'

Newman's tone was sharp.
At least,
thought Mark,
I now know it is someone's name.
He asked to speak to Tweed. Always talk to the top man, or as high as you can go, had
been Wendover's experience.

'He's not here. He's away on a trip. Don't know when
he'll be back. Now, once again, where did you hear that
name? And where the hell are you? With this outfit you
work as a member of a team . . .'

Newman was talking into nothing. Mark had broken the
connection. He'd try to get hold of Tweed later. At the
moment he wanted to explore Reefers Wharf. He paused
at the entrance to a very wide street leading towards the
distant river.

There were very large five-storey buildings with the
fifth storey in the sloping roof. The buildings furthest
away had a modern look, renovated by a so-called
architect in a feeble attempt to preserve the original warehouses' appearance. They had large opaque blue-
glass windows you couldn't see through. They reminded
Wendover vaguely of a miniature version of Park Avenue
in New York.

The buildings closest to him had not been touched.
They were still the warehouses that had stood there for
heaven knew how many years. Their walls of slatted wood
had a decrepit look, as though uninhabited. The dormer windows perched on the sloping fifth floor looked as though at any moment they might slide into the street.

He walked a short distance down the street, paused. The sun had come out, was a blinding glare on the buildings,
but on his side of the street were dark shadows, alleys leading off, very narrow, cobbled and twisting. Then he
saw Delgado.

The giant, holding a bottle in one hand by its neck,
was walking unsteadily towards him on the
sunny side.
Wendover slipped into the shadows of an alley, peered
out. Delgado had passed the renovated buildings, which
Wendover could now see were occupied by companies,
was strolling past the old warehouses.

A single-decker bus came crawling along the street,
hiding Delgado from view. When it was near the top
of the street Mark could no longer see Delgado. He
had vanished into one of the old warehouses. But which
one? It could have been any one of four. He went back
to The Hangman's Noose, told Herb what had hap
pened.

'I'll have to hang around here until I spot him again.
Maybe for days. Know anywhere I can get get a room?'

'Here. Upstairs. The one I gave Lisa, the attractive girl
I saw you with during the riots. A taxi arrived this morning
to collect her case.' Herb looked at the American. Tall,
fair-haired, with a large body to match. But it was the
clothes Herb was looking at. 'Hope you don't mind me
sayin' so - but you're too smartly dressed to mooch around
here for days. You stand out from the crowd. There's a
shop just down the road called Wingers. They'd have the
kit you need.'

'Thanks. I'll go there now . . .'

He returned later, holding a carrier bag with his new
suit inside. Herb looked at his new get-up approvingly.
Mark was clad in a shabby camouflage jacket, well-worn
denims, a Para's discarded red beret on his head.

'You'll do. I'll show you the room . . .'

Marler had found the flat where Helga Trent had been
murdered. It had not been difficult. Police tape still cordoned off the building and on the first floor he noted two bullet holes in a window.

Earlier, carrying a hold-all, he had found a 'hotel' - no
more than a boarding house - but it had a small bar. It
also had a vacant room which he'd taken.

Now, just before dusk, he stepped over the tape, rang the
bell of the flat. A middle-aged woman with a disagreeable expression and suspicious eyes opened the door, stood in
the entrance like a guardian, beefy arms folded.

'Are you the landlady?' Marler enquired.

'I'm the owner, if that's anything to do with you.'