'M. Bleu', as he was known to a small circle of French security, already responsible for the murders of Jason Schulz in Washington and Jeremy Mordaunt at Alfriston, fiddled with his motorcycle, perched by the kerb a short distance from the Elysee in Paris.
He gave the impression he was repairing his high-powered machine. Tall and slim, he appeared to be more heavily built, clad in black leather trousers and jacket, his crash helmet pulled well down over his head. From under his visor he kept glancing at the exit from the Elysee, official residence of the French President.
He was waiting for the appearance of Louis Lospin, chief aide to the Prime Minister and his most confidential adviser. Walking towards him was a Frenchman, a mechanic by trade. He stopped by the motorcyclist, offered to help.
'Merdel' Bleu snarled the insulting response.
The mechanic shrugged, resumed his stroll. You couldn't even offer to help some people. Behind him M. Bleu glanced up as a car emerged from the Elysee courtyard. He noted the number plate. It was Louis Lospin's car. He pulled his visor down further, straddled his machine which started as soon as he turned the key. He began to follow the car at a discreet distance.
Lospin's car followed the same route it had taken the previous day. When it eventually pulled up in front of an apartment building in the select district of Neuilly, the motorcyclist stopped, parked by the kerb, watched.
In his left hand he held a stopwatch. He was checking the exact time it took Lospin to emerge from his car, climb the steps to the front door. He also noticed the chauffeur who had driven the car moved off quickly, as he had done before. Lospin was taking out his key to open the front door when the car vanished at speed round a bend. The same routine as yesterday.
M. Bleu was infinitely thorough in his preparations, tracking his target day by day, looking for a pattern, a routine. It was only when he had discovered one, had checked the timing by his stopwatch, located an escape route, that he decided he could approach his victim, do what had to be done quickly, then vanish.
What he didn't know was that at Interpol, situated inside a fortress building in a city a long way from Paris, there was a file on M. Bleu. In his tiny office inside the building Pierre Marin was examining his copy of the file. The French embassies in Washington and London had wired data on their subject to Interpol.
Why? Because the French never stop worrying. They didn't know of any connection between Schulz and Mordaunt, but they suspected there was one. So did Marin. He had read the file very slowly three times, even though there was very little data. Tweed would have appreciated Marin.
Eventually Marin decided this man did not concern him or his country. French security was too tight. Germany was the next likely target. He scribbled a note in French on the last page. Not for us, could be for you. He then told an assistant to send a copy of the file by courier to Otto Kuhlmann, chief of the Federal Police in Germany.
Kuhlmann, a quick-witted man, read the file once, read the comment Marin had scrawled on the last page. Taking out a pen he scribbled through the comment, wrote one word next to it. Dummkopf. Which is the German word for 'idiot'.
On the same day, at Park Crescent, Tweed received a call from his old friend and sparring partner, Superintendent Roy Buchanan. At times they agreed, then disagreed, but Buchanan was probably the most efficient detective in Britain.
'Come over, now if you want,' Tweed suggested.
'That's me knocking on your door. I've something to show you.'
No more than fifteen minutes later he walked into the office, carrying a large cardboard-backed envelope. In his forties, Buchanan was a tall, lean-faced, lean-bodied man. His hair was dark brown and below his long nose was a neat moustache of the same colour. His eyes were shrewd, swept round the room at its occupants, all of whom he knew. Monica, Paula, behind her desk, Newman in an armchair and Marler, leaning against a wall.
'I've left Sergeant Warden downstairs,' he remarked.
Tweed invited him to sit down and Monica bustled out to fetch coffee. A stranger's impression of the lanky Buchanan would have been that he was relaxed, easygoing – which was a mistake many a villain had made.
'Is it about the riots, Roy?' Tweed enquired.
'Yes and no. I would appreciate your account of what you saw. One of my men recognized you near Reefers Wharf.'
'We didn't see any uniformed police until it was nearly all over,' Newman said caustically.
'That was because I took an unorthodox decision. I sent in teams in plain clothes so they didn't become a target. They ended up arresting twenty thugs.'
'That was clever,' Tweed commented. 'What did we see…'
He gave Buchanan an abbreviated report. Buchanan was writing in his notebook. He had just put his notebook away
– Tweed had made no mention of Lisa – when Monica arrived with the coffee. He drank half a cup, asked his question.
'Any clue as to who is behind them? Here? On the continent? In the States? Pity we hadn't an American contact.'
Mark Wendover had once more not arrived. Nor had he contacted Tweed, who was getting used to the American's independent habits. He shook his head as he answered the question.
'Not a clue. I'm investigating possible sources of finance.'
'Good idea. Very. Jumping to another topic, ever heard of a Mr Blue?'
'Yes,' said Marler. 'What do you know?'
'Only the name. One of my undercover men heard a reference to him in a sleazy nightclub. Made by a man who knows things no one else knows. I only asked because the name struck me.' He looked at Marler. 'Your turn.'
'Mr Blue,' Marler began, 'is the strangest case I've ever come across. Rumour hath it – no more than rumour- that he's a top-class assassin. The weird thing is he's not for hire, no matter how much the money offered on the grapevine. He selects his own targets. That really is weird.'
'So we know nothing,' Buchanan commented. 'Jumping now to a third topic, a murder case. Here in town. In a flat off Ebury Street. I was nearby so I went and interviewed the landlady who rents out the flat. The victim, a Helga Trent, was shot dead from a window across the street. So was her dog.'
'Sounds unusual,' said Tweed quickly.
'I've got here…' Buchanan took a thick sheet of paper, cartridge, from his envelope, gave it to Tweed. 'That's a picture one of our artists drew from the landlady's description of a sister Helga who was visiting her. The sister who rented the flat has since vanished.'
Tweed, his face expressionless, looked down at the drawing. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a woman with long red hair. It was a surprisingly good likeness of Lisa.
Tweed stood up. He walked towards Newman and Paula with his back to Buchanan. He was frowning a warning at them. Paula looked at the portrait, shook her head.
'Can't help you.'
Tweed presented the portrait to Newman, who took his time studying it. He handed it back to Tweed.
'A good-looker. Wish I did know her.'
'Well, it was a long shot,' Buchanan remarked as he returned the paper to its envelope. 'But you lot mix with a whole variety of people.'
'We do,' Tweed agreed. 'If you'd like to have a copy of the portrait reduced to a small size – something I could carry in my pocket – we just might spot her here in town.'
'Make you three copies. One for you, one for Paula and one for Newman.'
'Before you go,' Marler interjected as Buchanan started to stand up. 'Any news from Dorset?'
'I knew there was something else.' The superintendent sat down again. 'The Chief Constable down there had a chopper up all night. They changed crews and the chopper tried its luck in daylight. Not a thing. No sighting of a crowd of men like Tweed described – from what you saw. No buses, but they could have hidden them in old barns.'
'I don't suppose this Mr Blue could have killed Helga Trent?' Marler suggested.
'It is a very strange case,' Buchanan ruminated. 'The landlady said Helga was older than her sister but also had long red hair and looked a bit like her. The body was lying under a window with heavy net curtains. Two bullet holes in the window. One for Helga, the other for the dog. It crossed my mind that maybe the killer had shot the wrong target – that he was after Helga's sister and thought he saw her as Helga stood behind the curtains, with the light on behind her.'
'Anything to back up that theory?' Tweed asked.
'The fact that the younger sister has vanished – and made no attempt to call the police. Mind you, the landlady said they didn't get on. Helga tried to dominate her younger sister – the landlady heard arguments. I must go now…'
Monica held the door open for him, peered down the stairs. Sergeant Warden was sitting motionless on a chair facing George, the guard. As usual, Warden looked like a wooden Indian.
When Monica came back into the room Paula had shifted her desk chair in front of where Tweed was sitting. She sat down.
'That gave me a shock,' she said. 'That drawing is a perfect likeness of Lisa.'
'Almost,' he said. 'I congratulate both you and Bob for reacting the way you did.'
'You don't want Lisa bothered by police while she's ill,' Newman suggested.
'That comes first. Is most important. But I also think she is the key to this huge crisis building up. I think Buchanan is right in his theory. Lisa was the killer's target. We must keep her guarded night and day.'
'Harry has just gone over to the clinic to relieve Pete Nield,' Newman reported. 'I'm next on duty. No one will get at her.'
'I'll phone the clinic, see how she's progressing,' Tweed decided.
While he was speaking to Master neither Paula, Marler, nor Newman said a word. Paula sensed an atmosphere of tension in the room. After a while Tweed put the phone down.
'Master says she has severe concussion. He wants to keep her there until she's completely recovered. Warned me it could take weeks and he'll keep me informed.'
'I'd hoped for more,' Paula said quietly.
'I'm sure we all did. There's no skull fracture, thank God. Master also said he's sure she was exhausted and that has not helped.'
'She would be, after last night,' Newman commented.
'I have an idea,' Marler began. 'I'd like to go and check out that area round Ebury Street. The killer knew where Lisa was staying. That means he followed her. Might have located her pad days ago. That's what I'd have done in his place.'
'So what would you be looking for?' Newman enquired.
'His base – where he shacked up while he waited for the ideal opportunity. I might get a description of someone. It could take me days.'
'Do it,' Tweed decided. 'It's the only lead we've got to this mysterious business.'
Paula reached for his doodle pad. He had added another name, put a loop round it. Mr Blue.
'And I can't link him up with anyone.'
Tweed put a hand on the top of his head. He began to stand up, then rested both hands on his desk for support. Paula reached out, grasped both hands in hers. He sank back slowly into his chair, sagged.
'You're feeling rotten, aren't you?' Paula said, coming round to his side of the desk.
'Headache's been building up… pounding like a drum. It's so damned hot in here…'
Monica swiftly produced a thermometer, handed it to Paula. She inserted it gently into Tweed's mouth, looked at her watch, felt his temple. When she took out the thermometer she showed it to Newman.
'He's got a fever,' she whispered.
'He certainly has. That's diabolically high,' Newman whispered back.
'We're taking you to the clinic,' Paula said, leaning over Tweed. 'You're not…'
'Not the clinic…' Tweed was having trouble speaking. 'You know I… hate all medical things… hospitals, nurses fussing. Get me home… That's an order… Then get Dr Abbott
Tweed made a supreme effort. Resting his hands on his chair, he hoisted himself upright, swayed as Paula and Newman each grabbed an arm. He slowly walked towards the door as they held on to him.
'The stairs,' Monica warned, horrified.
'Bring the… pad on my desk,' he ordered Monica, then started coughing.
'Not a good idea…' she began.
'Bring the pad on my desk!' he roared.
Everyone was startled by the ferocity and strength in his voice. Monica hastily ran and picked up the pad.
'I'm going down the stairs immediately ahead of him,' said Marler. 'The hatchback is outside.'
'Water…' Tweed called out, his voice now croaking.
Monica poured a glass, handed it to Paula. Tweed tried to take it but Paula held on, guiding it to his lips. He drank the whole glass in two draughts, coughed again. They half-carried him down the stairs, step by step. Once he bumped into Marler who grabbed hold of both banisters, stiffened himself to take the weight. They reached the hall. George grasped the situation at once, ran to unlock and open the front door. Marler ran out to unlock the hatchback, open the rear door.
Tweed paused on the pavement, took in a deep breath. He looked at Paula, gave her a half-smile.
'Air's good…'
When they had Tweed flopped against a rear seat, Marler ran round to take the wheel as Paula climbed in the back. Newman waited.
'I'll keep the roster on you-know-who going,' he called out.
Upstairs, Monica had already phoned Dr Abbott, explained the situation, that Tweed was being taken home. In the Crescent the car moved off.