by Colin Forbes
'Albert?' The surprise showed in Tweed's voice. 'My friend is called Kurt.'
'Please to excuse me. That was a little test. I will get it for you now.'
She hurried to the kitchen, hauled out a drawer full of cutlery. Balancing it on a work surface, she detached an envelope taped to the underneath. She handed it to Tweed.
'There you are. You will see Kurt signed it on the back with his Christian name. You are hungry?'
'We can't impose on your hospitality...'
'I ask if you are hungry.' Her blue-grey eyes held his and he had the impression of a forceful personality. At the same time she gave him a radiant smile. 'You like Filets des Perches with the pomme frites? Most Englishmen do. The table is already laid, as you see.'
'For someone else, I suspect, Mademoiselle.'
'I am a widow. The table is laid for a group of farmers - they will not be here until this evening. I have plenty of food for them and for you and your friends.'
Tweed glanced at his watch. He suddenly felt terribly hungry. And what she had offered was one of his favourite dishes.
'We have to leave in an hour at the latest - to catch a train back to Basel.'
'Then please sit down, everyone. You have plenty of time.'
She was already' returning to the kitchen. She produced several pans, opened the large fridge-freezer. Everyone was sitting down when Paula noticed the entrance door had not been closed properly. She went to shut it and thought she caught sight of someone moving in the street.
Opening the door wider, she went out on to the landing. There was no sign of anyone. Nearby several narrow alleys led off the street. Must have been my imagination, she thought. She closed the door and sat next to Tweed at the table.
The plates of food, which smelt wonderful, were placed before them more quickly than Tweed had expected. Juliette sat down opposite him, noticing he had already broken some crusty bread. She smiled.
'You were hungry. You have started eating the bread.'
'It's some of the best bread I've ever tasted,' he answered honestly. 'This is very good of you, Madame Leroy.'
'I enjoy this.' She looked round the table at Newman, Nield, Butler and Marler, then at Paula. 'It gives me much pleasure to watch you eating. You are all most hungry.'
What a nice woman, Paula thought. She radiates good humour. She loves to see people having a good time. What a pity there aren't more like her in the world.
'I fear we must go now,' Tweed said a short while later. 'I don't want to but, as I said, we have to catch that train. Something important waits for us in Basel.'
They stood up from the table, their plates cleared of food. Then Tweed had a friendly argument when he insisted on paying. He became emphatic.
'You are running a business here. I must pay.'
'You come here for holiday with me. All who can. All, I hope.' She laughed. 'Then you pay through the nose. Is that correct?'
'Perfect English.' Tweed reluctantly put away his wallet. He could argue all night and she wouldn't give way. He made a gesture of resignation.
'Madame Leroy—'
'Juliette. Please.'
'Juliette, we will come here on holiday - to your beautiful village. To sample your superb cooking. You gave us a meal to remember.'
'Go and catch your train. And may God go with you.'
When they reached the archway under the ancient tower Paula paused and they waited for her. She was looking back at the beauty of St Ursanne. She wanted to be able to visualize the village later when they were gone. Then she forced herself to turn round and they started to hurry up the road which seemed steeper climbing it. They were halfway to the station when Newman stopped, swore under his breath.
'Something wrong?' asked Paula.
'I've left my gloves, my motoring gloves in the restaurant. I'm going back to get them. They're the ones you gave me for Christmas, Paula.'
'You'll miss the train,' Tweed warned.
'No, I won't. Remember, I came in the first ten in the London marathon'
He began to hare off down the hill. Paula paused briefly to take one last look at St Ursanne. Soon the sun would drop behind a nearby mountain and the village would be swallowed up in shadows. At the moment she could see every detail in the crystal-clear light.
'It's a dream village,' she said as she resumed climbing upwards alongside Tweed. 'I'm looking forward to a wonderful holiday.'
'So am I,' Tweed agreed.
Behind them Newman, running, was about halfway to the old stone tower. His right foot slipped on a large stone and he sprawled full length. He, took the worst of the impact on his forearms. When he began to get up he realized his right ankle was hurting. He sat up in the road, pushed down his socks, examined it. Wiggling his foot, he was relieved to realize he had neither broken nor sprained it. The only sign of his minor accident was a faint bruise.
He stood up, tested the foot. When he glanced back up the hill the others were tiny figures approaching the bend below the station. He was glad they hadn't seen him fall and he found he could move at a brisk pace back to St Ursanne.
Tap... tap... tap...
Juliette Leroy frowned as she heard the strange sound corning closer and closer, mounting the steps outside. She went to the door and opened it. A man with very dark glasses, holding a white stick, stood motionless.
'I am sorry to disturb you,' he said, his accent American. 'I am very thirsty. I have walked a long way. Could you give me a glass of water?'
'Of course. Please come in.'
Juliette was disappointed. She had just found a pair of gloves on a chair. She had hoped it was one of her new friends returning to collect them. At the same time she felt sorry for the blind man. He had looked so lonely. It must be awful to go through life like that.
Tap... tap... tap...
She turned and saw her visitor coming across the room, his stick guiding him between the tables. She remembered reading somewhere that the blind developed a keen sense of hearing. He must have picked up the sound of her footsteps walking across the floor to the kitchen.
With her back to him, she took a clean glass from a cupboard. She wiped it carefully on a clean cloth although it had been washed recently. Juliette was a stickler for all forms of hygiene. She turned off the tap when the glass was three-quarters full.
Behind her, Leo moved swiftly. Reversing his stick, he held it close to the tip. Elevating it, he hooked the flexible handle round her neck and throat, pressing a button which tightened the grip remorselessly. Juliette dropped the glass, tried to scream. Her air supply was cut off and she managed no more than a gurgle. The rubberized handle tightened. She reached up with both hands, trying to insert her fingers inside it. This was the moment when Leo jerked her backwards.
She toppled, hit the side of her head on the edge of a wooden working surface, sagged to the floor. Leo pressed the button again, releasing the grip of the handle. Bending over her unconscious form he checked her pulse. It beat steadily. He swore foully.
He glanced round, saw the heavy framed pictures hanging from the wall. Moving with great speed, he lifted one of the pictures, surprised at its weight. But that meant the hook left on the wall as he propped the picture against a cupboard was more than strong enough for his purpose.
From his pocket he pulled out a coil of thin strong rope — as strong as wire. Holding on to one end, which had a small wooden handle, pencil-thin, he whipped out the rope. The other end had a curved hook firmly attached. Bending down, he fashioned the first end into a loop with a hangman's knot. Slipping the loop over the unconscious woman's neck with the knot at the back, he used one strong arm to lift her. When he had her pushed close to the wall he slid the curved hook over the hook high up on the wall which had held the picture. Then he let go.
He had calculated the length of the rope perfectly. She was hanging with her feet well clear of the floor. That was when consciousness briefly returned to her. Leo stood back as her eyes opened, her heels thudded against the
wall, then the rope tightened round her neck. The thudding of her heels ceased. Her eyes stared out of her head. She hung motionless.
Leo grabbed his stick, twisted a band round it, closed it with a telescopic motion, thrust it down inside a pocket. He opened the door slowly, peered out. No one anywhere.
He ran down the steps, along the street. Reaching the archway exit he paused, looked round.it. He saw Newman running towards him, then collapse, stretched out in the road. He waited. He chose the moment when Newman glanced back up the road to dart across the arch, then down a side street opposite La Ruelle.
Above this part of St Ursanne a steep slope climbed behind the buildings. Its crest was topped with a dense palisade of leafless trees. The helicopter which had brought Leo had landed on a wide secluded plateau. From there he had found a way into a large garden of a house which, appeared unoccupied. He knew he must not go back the same way. At the end of the street he found a footpath climbing up. It should not be difficult to find the plateau where the chopper was waiting to take him back to Basel airport.
26
Paula had the train door open. Newman hurtled up the ramp into the station, dived inside the coach, Paula shut the door as the train started moving. Newman, streams of sweat pouring down his face, sank into a corner seat, stared round. They were now all aboard.
Tweed sat opposite him, next to Marler. Butler and Nield were in seats on the other side of the central corridor. Once again they had the coach to themselves. Gradually Newman's breathing became normal. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his face and the handkerchief was sodden.
He had never run so fast in his life. Not even for the marathon. And all the way it had been uphill. Everyone was staring at him. He didn't like it. He'd sooner have been alone. Paula was the first to speak to him. Quietly.
'I see you got your gloves back.'
He looked down. His right hand was still clutching the motoring gloves he had picked up. He had forgotten about them. He wasn't really in the train carriage at all. In his mind he was back at the Hôtel d'Or in St Ursanne. He had been suspicious when he saw the door was half open. He had crept silently up the steps, his Smith & Wesson in his hand. When he had walked in, seen what was there, he had automatically closed the door behind him.
He could see it now vividly. Juliette's body hanging from the picture hook like a side of beef. Her body limp, her eyes wide open, lifeless. His training had asserted itself. He had forced himself to search the place first, checking to see if the killer was still there. Then, futilely, he had reached up and checked her neck pulse. She was dead. Dead as anybody could be. He remembered thinking he should have checked her pulse first.
Holstering his gun; he had reached up again, one hand round her body, the other lifting off the hook. He was surprised at how light she had felt. Tenderly, he had placed her on a couch. Finding a knife in a kitchen drawer, he had carefully cut through the hangman's knot, removed the rope from round her neck, which was already swelling up.
He had thought of calling the local police. He had rejected the idea quickly. He could be held there for days. As a witness - more probably as a suspect. And there was work to do in Basel. Tweed needed him. That was when he had seen something lying on the floor under a table. He had picked it up, examined it for only a moment. Then he had known who the brutal killer was.
He had gone back briefly to the couch where she lay. He put a hand on her face. It had felt so cold. Then he had moved like a robot, using his handkerchief to wipe his prints off the handle of the knife, to open the door to the outside world, his gun by his side in his left hand. He hadn't thought he would see the murderer in the street but he had looked anyway. Nothing. Nobody.
He had checked his watch. He would never make the train. He had walked to the _arch, had taken a deep breath, had begun running up the road beyond non-stop. His brain had dulled, all his concentration on running. Now the shock was receding, he was thinking clearly.
'Let's change seats, Paula,' he said in a normal voice. `You like to look out of the window.'
They had changed seats but she hadn't looked out of the window. She was looking at him. Newman didn't realize that his complexion was ashen. Except for Tweed, the others were now being careful not to look at him. They were giving him time.
'You look washed out, Bob,' Tweed said casually. 'Has something happened?'
'You could say that.'
'I'd like to hear about it. When you're ready.'
Aware of Paula beside him, Newman phrased it carefully. He kept it simple. She had gone through enough already with her experience in Eagle Street - and then, more recently, the Umbrella Men.
'It's not good news, I'm afraid.'
'I didn't think it would be,' Tweed said in the same casual tone.
'It's about Juliette Leroy?' Paula whispered.
'When I got back I found her - strangled.'
'Oh, no...'
Paula tightened her lips. Newman had decided to give no details. They could come later. Any description now would be too horrific. He felt in the pocket of his coat. He had the attention of everyone now. He took the coat button he had picked up off the floor, handed it to Marler.
'Recognize that?'
'Can't say I do.'
'For once you slipped up.'
'I'm not with you,' said Marler.
'The killer walked past you before we went into St Ursanne. A fake blind man. Put on a clever show. As think Tweed once said, we're up against professionals.'
'I'm still not with you,' Marler repeated.
'He wore an old coat with unusual buttons. They almost merged with his coat. But I noticed them because the symbol on them is unusual. Couldn't identify it at the time. Look at it again. Looks like the torch held up by the Statue of Liberty outside New York.'
'So it does.' Marler handed back the button. 'Where did you find it?'
'Under a chair in the room where we had a meal at the Hôtel d'Or. There must have been a struggle. Or maybe the thread holding it was hanging loose.'
'And we saw him walk past us,' whispered Paula. 'And I thought, poor old thing.'
'Which was what you were intended to think,' Tweed remarked.
'Poor Juliette,' Paula went on. 'She was such a nice kind person. And I was looking forward to seeing her again. Dream village? It's turned into a nightmare.'
She stared out of the window. Sunlight still shone brilliantly on the greening landscape. She wasn't taking it in. Her mind had gone back to their lunch at the Hôtel d'Or. Tweed and Juliette had got on well together, their conversation easy. Maybe if they had returned for a holiday the two of them would have struck up a warm companionship. Years before, Tweed's wife had run off with a Greek shipping millionaire. He had never bothered to divorce her.
Tweed was also gazing out of the window, his expression pensive. The sunlight vanished. They had entered the tunnel. When they emerged from the other end Marler spoke.
'A second before the train left I thought I heard a chopper taking off.'
'You did,' agreed Newman.
'Probably the machine which brought the assassin, then flew him out afterwards.'
'That's what I thought/ Newman agreed again.
Arriving back at the Three Kings, Tweed followed Paula inside and stood stock-still. Standing by the reception desk was the last person in the world he expected to encounter. Sir Guy Strangeways.
'Hello, my good friend,' Strangeways greeted him. 'Small world.'
'As you say.'
'I'd appreciate a word with you. The writing room opposite the lift do you?'
'Just for a short time.'
As Strangeways disappeared into the room Tweed joined the others waiting for the lift. He kept his voice down.
'In half an hour's time we have to be in Beck's office across the street. You go on ahead when you're ready. I'll follow you. Guy has something on his mind.'
The door to the small room was closed. When Tweed opened it, shut it behind him, Strangeways was seated at a desk
, writing furiously. There was no one else in the room as Sir Guy, hearing the door close, dropped his fountain pen, twisted round in his chair with a worried expression.
'Good of you to come so quickly. Please do sit down.'
'How did you know I was here?' Tweed demanded, still standing.
'That's hush-hush. Sorry, I gave my word.'
'What was it you wanted to see me about? I haven't much time.'
'I have problems.'
'We all have. What are yours, Guy?'
'Rupert, for one thing.' Strangeways grimaced. 'I told you — he owes that casino at Campione a packet. They're turning nasty. They even had the nerve to call me at Irongates.'
'So where is Rupert?'
'I do wish you'd sit down, Tweed.'
'I can only give you a few minutes just now.' 'Rupert's here. With me.'
'In this hotel?'
'Yes. Situation being what it is, thought I'd better keep him under my wing, so to speak.'
'He may sneak off,' Tweed warned. `To borrow more money.'
'He's tried that back home. No one will give him a sou. Didn't know I was going to have to buy three tickets when we came out here.'
'So who is the third party?'
'Basil Windermere.'
'And has he a room in this hotel?' Tweed asked, suppressing his annoyance.
'He has. Not the sort of chap I want within a thousand miles of me, but I hadn't much choice. They're close friends. I know at one moment they'll be snarling at each other, then the next they're bosom pals. I thought Rupert needed someone of his own age to keep him company.'
'Where did you think I come in on this domestic problem?'
'Well.. Strangeways capped his pen, began twirling it between his fingers. 'I thought maybe Bob Newman could phone the boss of Campione, threaten to write an article exposing him.'
'Threaten? He doesn't know anything about the place.' Leaning on the edge of the desk, Tweed folded his arms. He stared down at the worried man.
'I don't think that's the real reason that you - somehow - found out where I was and hopped on a flight to see me.'
'There was something else.'