Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  'Good idea.'

  Paula had just disappeared round the bend in the alley, Philip was turning to go the other way when through the falling snow he saw a slim figure clad in a brown leather coat approaching him.

  'You are a spy,' Marco shouted in heavy guttural German. 'You were trying to find out where Mr Brazil was going to. You are his enemy!'

  Ever impetuous, Marco whipped out his long knife and lunged towards Philip. His action, Marco felt sure, would earn him praise from Craig, perhaps even promotion. Reaching for his Walther, Philip took several swift steps backwards, felt his feet slipping on sheet ice, toppled over backwards, saving his head by jerking his shoulders upwards. Marco raised his knife to plunge it into the sprawled body, took two steps forward, skidded on the same patch of ice, fell against the wall.

  Paula appeared. She had heard Marco shouting his threats. As he began to scramble to his feet Paula brought down the butt of her Browning on his skull. Marco collapsed and this time he lay still, made no attempt to regain his balance. The snow falling matched his deathly white face.

  'I think we'll forget Franklin.' Philip said quickly, climbing upright with one hand supporting himself by holding on to the wall. 'Time we moved off to Zurich. Franklin is going to have a surprise when he does come out. And thank you - for saving my life . . .'

  25

  Eve was fretting at being confined to the villa. It had been Brazil's express order that she should not leave the building. She had never been in Berne before and she was dying to go out and look at the shops. Besides, the five thousand francs she had taken off Craig was burning a hole in her shoulder bag. When Eve had money she spent it. And she had interesting news to tell Brazil - that she had spotted Paula Grey and Philip on Kochergasse.

  She'd just had the thought when the phone rang. She ran to it, curious to know what was going on.

  'Is that you, Eve? Good. Brazil here, speaking from a phone in a gas station. No, damnit! A service station. The Americans can't speak proper English to save their lives.'

  'How can I help?'

  'Get in your car with your suitcase. Drive immediately to Zurich. I've phoned ahead, booked a room for you at the Baur-en-Ville. It's in Bahnhofstrasse nearRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET'

  'I know where it is. I was once in Zurich.'

  'Then please get moving. I'm in a hurry. Stay in your room at the Baur-en-Ville from the moment you arrive. See you there

  Then he was gone. Stay in your hotel room . . . He'd be lucky, Eve thought as she hurried to her bedroom to pack her case. With Bahnhofstrasse on her doorstep. All those wonderful shops . . .

  'I wonder if I killed that thug in the alley?' Paula reflected aloud.

  With Philip behind the wheel, they were driving along a main highway, had left Berne half an hour earlier. It was snowing steadily and they had passed several snowploughs keeping the road clear. Philip glanced at her, spoke firmly.

  'No, you didn't kill him. I paused before following you out of the alley and checked his carotid. The pulse was beating normally. But what if you had killed the thug? It was him or me - and he'd have finished me off with that long knife. How would you have felt then - if you hadn't moved quickly enough? Just bear that in mind.'

  It was Paula's turn to glance at Philip, whose strong face was concentrating on the road ahead. For the moment he was no longer in the toils of Eve, a beastly woman, in Paula's opinion. And although she had no doubt the grief for his late wife, Jean, was still strong under the surface he now had full possession of his faculties. She recalled something Tweed had said to her.

  'Philip, in the end, will have to work it out for himself. None of us has had his grim experience, so none of us really knows what it must be like . . .'

  Tweed had flown to Zurich with Newman seated alongside him. He had ordered Butler and Nield, also aboard the same flight, to travel quite separately as though they had nothing to do with him.

  'The point is.' he had explained to Newman when they were in mid-air, 'according to Archie, Brazil has an incomplete list of our team. He knows about Paula, about you, and has Bill Franklin as a possible member. But he doesn't know about Philip, Butler, or Nield, so let's keep it that way. Nor does he know about Marler.'

  'And the only people who could have informed him from our stay in Dorset are Eve, Kent, or Franklin himself.'

  'Not Franklin.' Tweed pointed out. 'He would hardly put himself on their list even as a possible. I'm curious as to why Brazil is so anxious to build up a list.'

  'Sounds like a hit list.' Newman said calmly. 'Something for Mr Craig to attend to. Or maybe The Motor-man.'

  'I wonder where The Motorman is now.' Tweed mused as the plane began to descend to Kloten Airport, Zurich.

  Keith Kent was driving his hired Audi at speed along the highway from Geneva to Zurich, window open - a fresh-air fanatic. Well muffled against the cold, he whistled a tune to himself as he overtook huge juggernauts.

  He was listening to a cassette playing Sade, the pop singer. She had a mellow, enticing voice which suited his buoyant mood. He was making money again, always a most satisfactory feeling. Maybe he'd buy himself a really expensive suit made in Germany in Bahnhofstrasse. The Germans had become superb tailors.

  Kent had left Geneva early and was on his way to the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Talstrasse, which ran parallel to Bahnhofstrasse. Most convenient. He was overtaking a Mercedes sports car when he glanced sideways. Driving it by herself was an attractive blonde. He smiled and waved. She smiled back - Kent was a good-looking man attractive to the opposite sex.

  Pity we hadn't been in Zurich, caught up in the traffic, he thought. I might have persuaded her to have dinner with me. Always observant, he had noticed her left hand on the wheel wore no ring.

  Kent was always careful not to get mixed up in an affair with a married woman. It was not so much a matter of ethics - but when there was a husband about it could turn messy.

  He reached Zurich about lunchtime, drove slowly down Talstrasse, where there was very little traffic, stared, slowed down even more, still staring. Outside the Zurcher Kredit Bank a stretch black Mercedes with amber-tinted windows had pulled up.

  Kent stopped by an unoccupied meter, sat very still, his hand cupping his jaw. A tall, imposing figure had stepped out of the limo, paused while he limbered up, then strode into the bank as a black-suited man greeted him and the two men went inside.

  Kent's mind was racing. There was no doubt about it. The man who had entered the bank was Leopold Brazil. The last man in the world he would have expected to return to this bank.

  Keeping an eye open for a parking warden, he thought about earlier events. The time when it had leaked out that the bearer bonds, assumed to be the bank's total capital, had disappeared. The murder of the bank's chairman. No, that was something not to dwell on.

  When news of the missing bonds had leaked out Zurich had been shaken to its foundations. The city had been on the verge of panic with talk of a consortium of all the major banks being formed to rescue Zurcher, followed by the realization that its branches all held more than sufficient funds to remain solvent.

  Brazil had been a consultant to this bank, a non-executive director. Although how he had gained the latter position was beyond Kent - Swiss law was firm that only citizens of Swiss birth could be any kind of director of a bank.

  'I'll have to postpone my visit while he's inside.' Kent said to himself.

  A taxi pulled up in front of Kent's car, a very old lady clambered out slowly. The driver appeared round the front of the vehicle, carrying a huge case with both his hands. His passenger gave him some money. The driver looked at the money, made a contemptuous gesture, got back behind the wheel, and drove off. The old lady gazed round with a bewildered expression. Kent jumped out, spoke to her in German.

  'You are worried about something?'

  'My suitcase. It is heavy. I told the driver I live on the third floor of this building. How am I going to get my bag up to my apartment?'

  'Third f
loor? Easy. Follow me at your own pace. No need to hurry . . .'

  He lifted the bag, which felt as though it was full of blocks of cement. Slim as he was, Kent ran up the steps, mounted the darkened staircase beyond without a pause. He had to wait ages for the old lady to appear, a key in her hand. She unlocked a door and Kent followed her inside with the immense suitcase. He dumped it on a divan she gestured to. The interior of the apartment smelt musty, was crammed with old-fashioned furniture. The old lady sank into a chair, gazed at him without warmth.

  'You'd better go now,' she said.

  'I'm on my way. You're all right?'

  'Just go. Now . . .'

  He ran back down the gloomy stone staircase, wondering whether he'd got a ticket for parking without putting coins in the meter. The street was deserted -except for the parked limo. The chauffeur, a dark-skinned man, was polishing the windscreen. What had impressed Kent was the fact that, instead of waiting for the chauffeur to open the car door, the normal procedure for men who ranked themselves among the elite, Brazil had got out of the car himself.

  Getting back inside his own car, Kent flexed the hand which had carried the bag. It didn't even ache. Kent was not only strong, he was very fit. He drove off, following a devious route through the city due to its one-way system. He eventually parked in the underground garage of Globus, the great department store near the top of Bahnhofstrasse.

  Feeling the need to stretch his legs after the drive from Geneva, he walked up to Bahnhofplatz, the large square in front of the main station. Descending the escalator into Shopville, he walked across it, ascended another escalator into the main station.

  He bought himself a carton of coffee from a stall, took it outside to drink it. Here there was traffic, nonstop, plus Zurich's large blue trams rumbling along in all directions. Across the square was the Hotel Schweizerhof.

  He was drinking more coffee when he stopped and again stared. A taxi had pulled up in front of the Schweizerhof. Tweed and Newman stepped out.

  The experience which greeted Tweed's arrival at the hotel was hardly the peace and quiet he had anticipated before meeting Brazil. As he walked into the lobby with Newman, a tall man in a dark suit with greying hair, grey eyes, a neat grey moustache, and a face with a grim expression jumped up, came forward. Arthur Beck of the Federal Police.

  'Tweed, I have to talk to you now. You, too, Newman. I have reserved a room where we will be quiet. This way.'

  'I hope you're paying for the room,' Tweed said quizzically.

  'No charge to the police.' Beck snapped as they entered an elevator and he pressed the button.

  'We should have registered.' Tweed remarked.

  The concierge knows you well.'

  'Damn it!' snapped Newman, irked by Beck's abrupt manner. 'We've had no lunch and I'm hungry.'

  'That will have to wait.'

  Beck had a key in his hand. Leaving the lift he went to a door, unlocked it, waited until they had walked past him inside.

  'You may sit. Perhaps you'd better.'

  'I was going to anyway.' Tweed observed after taking off his coat and settling in an armchair. He looked at Newman. 'Make yourself at home. Nice of Arthur to arrange all these comforts for us.'

  Beck took a dining chair from under a table, placed it in front of Tweed and Newman, who had also occupied an armchair. He straddled his long legs over the seat, perched his elbows on the top of the back, gazed at them, and said nothing.

  Tweed and Newman, who knew this police tactic, refrained from saying a word. Eventually Beck spoke, his eyes on Tweed.

  'You had some of your team in Berne this morning?'

  'Not to my knowledge.' Tweed answered truthfully. 'Why?'

  'You know a thug called Marco? Handy with a knife.'

  'No.'

  'I had an anonymous call from a man at my HQ in Berne. He informed me that he was walking down an alley off the Munstergasse when he came across a man sprawled in the snow. The man reached for a knife so the caller kicked him in the head. The victim was Marco. Am I ringing any bells?'

  'Did you hear a bell ringing?' Tweed asked Newman.

  'Look.' Beck said aggressively, 'Marco is all right. He was discharged after we took him to out-patients. But I don't appreciate violence on my doorstep.'

  'Move your doorstep, then.' Newman joked.

  'There's nothing funny about the present situation.' Beck snapped. 'Switzerland is supposed to be a peaceful country. We have a murderous shoot-out last night in Geneva. Six bodies in the morgue now. Plus another strange murder just reported - also from Geneva.'

  'What strange murder is that?' Tweed asked.

  'An unsavoury arms dealer was killed in Geneva also. A man called Rico Sava.' He paused. 'He had his neck broken.'

  'The Motorman?' Tweed asked quietly.

  'It has all his trademarks. That makes seven corpses. Now this thug, Marco, in Berne.' He smiled. 'Now I've done it.'

  'Done what?' Newman demanded.

  'Given you both a dressing down, covered myself. Just in case someone influential - a friend of Brazil's -asks me about you.'

  Beck's whole manner had changed. He stood up, swivelled his chair round, sat in his normal manner.

  'There's a development you ought to know about. I can't prove they're employed by Leopold Brazil, but I know they are.'

  'Who?' asked Tweed quietly.

  'A whole army of tough-looking thugs disguised as skiers came into Geneva from France. They broke up into groups and boarded several different expresses heading east towards the Valais. God knows what there is for them in that canton. The season is almost over - the slopes are dangerous and there's the risk of avalanches. Yet they've flooded in like a small invasion.'

  Beck stood up, extended his hand. He shook hands warmly with both Tweed and Newman.

  'Why not go and have a good lunch? At least Zurich is quiet. Incidentally, I'll be based for the next few days at Zurich Police HQ. You know where it is - close to this hotel, overlooking the River Limmat.' He paused. 'Have a care. We now know The Motorman is back.'

  26

  Tweed and Newman had finished an excellent lunch in the comfortable surroundings of the dining room on the first floor of the Schweizerhof. As always, whenever he visited the city, Tweed had spoiled himself by ordering escalope Zurichoise.

  'Let's go for a walk,' Newman suggested. 'A quiet stroll will be welcome after the earlier part of our encounter with Beck.'

  'He has his problems,' Tweed replied as he turned down a side-street off Bahnhofplatz. 'Which doesn't help us. Every time we've been here before he's been able to give us his full backing. We'll just have to cope on our own.'

  They were passing a side door which led into the Hummer Bar, one of the restaurants in the Hotel Gotthard. Newman paused.

  'I could pop in and see if they've arrived. Marler and Butler and Meld,'

  'We know Butler and Nield have arrived,' Tweed pointed out, continuing to walk. 'They came on our flight. Marler has to get here from Geneva.'

  'I know. I hadn't forgotten Butler and Meld. But we don't want them wandering round, checking out the city before you've met Brazil. At least you don't want that.'

  'No, I don't

  It had stopped snowing while they were eating lunch and they turned along another street into Bahnhofstrasse, the section which was car-free because of the trams. As they re-entered Bahnhofplatz Newman stopped, grasped Tweed's arm.

  'Look. Paula and Philip have just arrived on foot -they're going into the Schweizerhof. Incidentally, was it wise to mention the hotel's name over the phone to Paula when you spoke to her at the Hotel des Bergues from London? That line would pass through the hotel's switchboard.'

  'There are several Schweizerhofs in Switzerland,' Tweed reminded him. 'A big one in Beme, for example. And I did not mention Zurich - Paula knew what I was talking about. What is it now?'

  Newman had again grabbed Tweed's arm. They stood still as Newman gazed across the far side of Bahnhofplatz in front of the main st
ation.

  'That large Volvo. Craig is sitting in the passenger seat at the front. There are three other yobbos in the car. You still feel no need of protection?'

  They were standing close to the pavement edge with Newman on the outside. The Volvo continued its slow glide round the platz, cruised slowly past the entrance to the Schweizerhof. Craig was now seated next to the pavement. The car almost stopped alongside Newman.

  Craig grinned, suddenly swung the door open to send Newman flying. Newman grabbed the handle, shoved the door shut with all his strength. He saw Craig's face crumple into an expression of pain. The closing door had struck Craig's elbow. He glared with hatred at Newman, then the car moved on.

  'I don't care what you say.' Newman snapped, taking over control, 'I'm going back to the Gotthard to have a word with our people.'

  Before Tweed could protest he was gone.

  Philip and Paula had registered as Tweed entered the lobby and a porter had taken their bags to a lift and disappeared. Relieved to see her, Tweed kissed Paula on the cheek.

  'We've had lunch. That is, Bob and I.'

  'You unpacked your suitcases first?' Paula enquired.

  'Well, no,' Tweed confessed. 'A porter took them up to our rooms and we went straight to the dining room.'

  'You should have gone up to your rooms first.' she chided him. 'At least you should have opened your cases, taken out jackets and hung them up. Everything will be creased and crumpled.'