Precipice

by Colin Forbes

  'A bullet in her back? You mean someone shot her? So where did the tragedy take place?'

  'I will bring you a map.'

  Obviously glad of someone to talk to, the waitress hurried away, came back with a map which she unfolded and spread on the table. She pointed to an area on the northern mountains rising up behind Sion.

  'It happened near the Col du Lemac on the Keller-horn. That is the name of the mountain, which means Wild Boar Mountain - because the summit is shaped like the head of a wild boar. To get there you have to drive up this dangerous road . . .' She pointed to a road which, marked on the map, looked like no more than a narrow yellow thread. 'That is where the new meteorological station has been built. It has been in working order for some time.'

  'A weather station? A state enterprise?' Philip enquired casually.

  'Oh, no! A very wealthy man had it built. He is interested in making weather forecasts more accurate. It was built very quickly before the snows came. It must have cost him a fortune. He brought in workers from outside and they worked in three shifts all day and all night.'

  'How could they work at night?'

  'He is clever. He had huge arc lights erected so the men could work easily in the dark. He brought most of the workers from the Balkans. Now they have returned to their homes with their pockets full of money.'

  'And this weather station is close to the Kellerhorn?'

  'It is built on the Kellerhorn, close to the summit. He has it well guarded against vandals. His security force patrols the area day and night.'

  'And was it close to this station where the tragedy you have just described took place?'

  'Yes, it was. We hear the police visited the chief of security but neither he nor any of his guards had seen the skiers.'

  'Point out the site of this weather station to me on the map, if you would be so kind.'

  The waitress made a small cross below the word Kellerhorn. She looked at Philip.

  'You seem interested. You can keep this map. I have another one.'

  'Thank you.' He took the map she had folded and put it in his pocket. 'I suppose you wouldn't know the name of the man who had the station built? He must be very well known round here.'

  'No one knows his name. He arrives in a private jet at the airfield outside Sion. A big car with tinted windows so you cannot see inside waits for his plane, then takes him up to his villa.'

  'His villa? That is near the weather station?'

  'Oh, no. It is in the mountains on the other side of the valley. He had it built when they were creating the weather station. The villa was completed first. It is very remote and overlooks a glacier. I could show you on the map.'

  Philip took out the map again, unfolded it, spread it out. The waitress's finger followed another yellow thread of a road, again with frequent zigzags, like the road to the weather station. She marked the position of the villa and the glacier below it. The area was called Col de Roc.

  'You want to see the villa? You will have to hire a car with chains. That road is as dangerous as the other one. But do not go now.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because we have heard this very important man is due to fly in to the airfield. A friend who knows the controller told me. He is always escorted with motorcyclists.'

  'Do you know where I could hire a car with chains?' enquired Philip. 'I could go to see this villa when he has gone.'

  'Wait a minute. I have a street plan of Sion . . .'

  She rushed off again, eager to please this man she had taken a fancy to. He was so polite, so interested in the Valais. She returned with the street plan, pointed to a cross she had already marked.

  'That firm will hire you the car you want. You will have no difficulty. All the tourists have gone. It is the weather - and the few who might have stayed heard about the tragedy.'

  'And about the bullet in the American woman's back?'

  'Oh, no! That is a secret. The police have told us we must not mention that to anyone who visits Sion. Really I should not have told you, but I got carried away talking to you.'

  'I promise not to say a word about it. There, I have had three cups of coffee while we were talking. How much do I owe you?'

  She told him. She also said he could keep the street plan of Sion. When he had given her a generous tip she frowned.

  'It is too much. And you asked me for the name of the important man. I said I did not know. But I have just remembered the name of the unpopular man who supervised the building of the villa and the station.'

  'Why was he unpopular?'

  'He was a big man with no manners. An Englishman - you will excuse me for saying that. You are English, of course? I thought so. The English are usually polite but this man was very rude. He spoke to people as if they were slaves.'

  'And his name was?'

  'Craig.'

  Philip left the restaurant in a bemused state. He recalled something Newman had once told him from his experience as a foreign correspondent.

  'Philip, if you want to find out something when you are in a new town, don't ask leading questions. Simply mix with the locals - in a bar, in a cafe. Get them talking. There are a lot of lonely people in the world who will tell strangers things. Be a good listener. And if you are listening to a woman who likes you, then you will be surprised how much she will sometimes tell you . . .'

  He was glad he had removed his fur-lined coat before sitting down in the restaurant. Ice-cold air hit him as he stood on the platform. A door opened, the waitress ran up to him.

  'You left your gloves. Do put them on. The mist is with us. Otherwise you may get frost-bite.'

  'Thank you. You are most kind.'

  She had run back inside the restaurant. He realized his hands were freezing. He felt bemused again as he looked across to Sion. A dense white mist had descended on the Valais. It shrouded the town in a motionless layer. To his right what looked like a small mountaintop sat on top of the mist. Perched on its summit, probably a couple of hundred feet high, was what looked like an ancient castle. As he watched, the mist layer rose to cover the summit, leaving only the castle-like building which appeared to float in mid-air.

  Carrying his bag towards the exit he almost paused, then kept moving. Three motorcyclists clad in black leather with their visors pulled down over their helmets had appeared, were swaggering towards him.

  'You want a girl?' one of them shouted in French. 'Then come with us. She will warm you up.'

  'I am afraid I can't understand you.' Philip replied in German.

  The three louts parted to let him pass just as he reached them. The same man shouted behind his back in French.

  'Bloody Kraut.'

  Philip ignored the insult, left the station. It began to look as though Sion crawled with Craig's bodyguards.

  The mist swirled everywhere as he entered the town looking for a hotel, carrying his bag. Like the icy fingers of a ghost it smoothed over his face, a sensation he found distinctly unpleasant. Here and there it thinned, showing him the buildings.

  This part of Sion, which he later realized was most of the town, was not what he had expected. Instead of old houses there were modern office blocks of concrete, shop fronts which were also modern and boring. Because he had walked straight out of the station along the Avenue de la Gare he quickly saw Hotel Touring, a small block of white concrete.

  He didn't hesitate. The hotel was near the station and the mist was growing thicker. He went inside, booked a room. While the receptionist took details from his passport he peered into a bar, which had a circular counter of wood, a wooden ceiling, wooden stools at the bar, wooden tables and chairs. They have a lot of wood in Switzerland, he thought.

  Once inside his room he partially unpacked his bag, leaving underclothes inside to conceal his small armoury. He also took out two rubber wedges which he pushed under the door, a trick Marler had taught him.

  'Hotels always have people with master keys,' Marler had reminded him.

  Philip had hung up his coat
but now he took off his heavy sports jacket. The hotel believed in keeping its visitors warm and the room was almost hot. He would have liked to go down and eat another breakfast but he was suddenly overcome with a wave of fatigue, the penalty of a disturbed night at the Hotel des Bergues in Geneva and constant alertness since he had started the day - including never relaxing in the presence of Inspector Vincenau.

  Kicking off his climbing boots, he flopped on the bed and began studying the map of the area the waitress had given him. Blinking, he forced himself to look at the two routes more carefully. He began talking quietly to himself. It was all right as long as you knew you were doing it, he reckoned.

  'That road up to the Col du Lemac and the Kellerhorn where the so-called weather station is looks a real swine. Too many zigzags - which mean fiendish hairpin bends, probably with a drop into eternity on one side.'

  He yawned, took in deep breaths, turned his attention to the route up to the villa Brazil had had built.

  'That one doesn't look any better. And if the waitress was right in where she put her cross the villa hangs right above the glacier. Part of the road before you get there also is poised over the glacier. Great . . .'

  He yawned again, took the Walther out of his holster to get more comfortable, slipped the gun under the pillow. Then he fell fast asleep, the map spread out over him.

  When Paula boarded an express for Geneva at Zurich she chose an empty compartment at the rear of the train. From that position she could see any passenger who also boarded the express after she had done. No one appeared as the train moved out of the station.

  Knowing that this express did not stop anywhere until it reached Berne, about an hour later, she stood up, inserted a small needle at the side of her case on the rack. This would tell her when she returned if someone had tampered with the case.

  Then she strolled slowly along the full length of the express, glancing into each compartment. The train was almost empty. Midway along she looked into yet another compartment and almost stopped, but she forced her feet to keep moving.

  Apparently asleep in a corner of an otherwise empty compartment was Keith Kent. On the seat beside him rested his case, touching him - as though he felt the need to be sure no one tried to examine it while he was sleeping.

  As she passed more compartments there was evidence that other passengers were aboard. A coat folded on a seat, bags on racks, books left on seats. She would have loved to check what they were reading but there was too great a risk of the owner returning.

  She reached the dining car, stopped. Through the glass window in the door she saw it was almost full. Waiters were serving a meal and she decided she would go back to her compartment - she would be too conspicuous walking the full length of the dining car.

  Settling herself in her seat, she reminded herself to look out of her window at the few stops before Geneva. The presence of Kent on the train puzzled her. To avoid his seeing her she would have to leave the express last if he travelled all the way to Geneva - after seeing him disembark from her window.

  Arriving eventually at Cornavin, she watched Kent leaving the train, carrying a case. She had her coat and gloves on and hurried off the express, carrying her own bag. Outside the station she told a cab driver to take her to a small hotel near Cornavin she had once stayed at.

  It never occurred to her that Philip might be spending the same night at the Hotel des Bergues. After dinner she borrowed a rail timetable from the receptionist and checked expresses to Milan which stopped at Sion for the following morning.

  Again she didn't realize she had chosen the next express after the one Philip had planned to board. She undressed, had a shower, sank into bed, and fell asleep at once. When she woke in the morning with a start she recalled the dream she had had. The Motorman, a shadowy figure, had been pursuing her. He had almost caught her as she ran, when she woke up.

  She ate a full English breakfast, remembering Newman's advice.

  'When you're on a job you eat on the hoof. You get a meal wherever you can - because you never know where or when the next one will be available . . .'

  She took a taxi back to Cornavin, boarded the express when it came in. She was making herself comfortable in an empty first-class compartment when someone hurried past to board the train higher up. Keith Kent.

  As the express later entered the Valais she had the same reaction as Philip. She gazed out of the window with a growing sense of fascination and horror.

  She felt she was entering a white hell. She saw the snow-covered mountains looming close to the train as it passed through Martigny, the valleys, the frozen waterfalls, the lack of life in the snow-deep plain hemmed in by the great mountains on both sides.

  I'll have to buy more sweaters in Sion, she thought.

  She had brought a fur-lined trench coat with a hood she could pull over her head, but when she opened the window for a moment the well-heated compartment became ice-cold in seconds. She slammed the window shut.

  Gazing out of the window, she tried to work out a plan to locate Philip. She felt sure now he would have caught the earlier express. On an assignment, Philip was a very early riser. Then the idea came to her.

  She was worried about getting off the train at Sion in case Kent also disembarked. It was only a one-minute stop. A man's voice on the internal tannoy announced they were approaching Sion. Standing up, she saw outside the window the airfield and then everything was blotted out by a white mist as thick as cottonwool.

  Charming, she thought. Just what I needed. I don't think . . .

  When the automatic door opened outside the end of the coach she stepped down on to the platform, paused. Further along the platform Kent had already got off, was hurrying towards the exit.

  'That was a bit of luck.' she said to herself. 'Now I need a list of hotels in this place.'

  She saw the restaurant, went inside, sat down after taking off her coat, ordered coffee from the same waitress who had served Philip earlier.

  'Would you have a list of the hotels in Sion, please?' she enquired.

  'I can give you a brochure.'

  The waitress hurried away, brought back the brochure, handed it to Paula, and went away. She preferred men as customers, particularly if they were on their own. In her opinion women could be all right, but they could also be very awkward.

  Paula studied the brochure while she drank her coffee. It was a street plan of the town, a map of the surroundings, and a list of the hotels, each with an alphabetical letter which was reproduced on the map. She counted the number of hotels.

  Oh, Lord, she thought. Twenty-two of them. So finish your coffee and get moving. Blast the mist . . .

  She left the station, carrying her bag, and found a hotel not far from the station. She had her script in her head as she walked in and spoke to the receptionist.

  'I'm looking for a friend, Philip Cardon. He's staying somewhere at a hotel in Sion but I don't know which one. The trouble is his mother is seriously ill back in London and I have to tell him. Is he staying here? Philip Cardon. Shall I spell it?'

  'No one with a name like that staying here, I'm afraid.'

  She plodded on, the mist freezing her face despite her pulling her hood close to her face. She thought Sion was dreary, the buildings boring. Maybe it was because there was no one else about and the depressing atmosphere of the mist.

  She went into another small hotel. A man stood behind the reception desk. He wore a shabby waistcoat, unbuttoned, and an open-necked shirt due for a spell at the laundry. His hair was greasy, as was his skin. She recited her story.

  'Don't fool me.' He leered at her. 'Lost your boy friend, have you? Will I do? And hotel registers are confidential so there we are.'

  With an expressionless face she extracted a ten-franc note from her purse, held it between her fingers. His small eyes gleamed. She thought he was going to lick his lips. He reached out, snatched the note and made it disappear in a flash.

  'All right. He's not here. Show you the registe
r . . .'

  'Don't spend it all at once.' she snapped and walked out.

  Still carrying her bag, she strolled further down the street, heard a motorcycle coming. The rider in black leather pulled up alongside her.

  'Just arriving?' he croaked in French. 'On business or pleasure.'

  'Just leaving.'

  He said something she didn't catch and rode off into the mist. This place is beginning to get me down, she was thinking, when she saw a clothes shop. She went inside, wasted no time buying two polo-neck sweaters, one white, one pale blue.

  'I'll be wearing both of them at the same time soon,' she said to herself. Then she trudged on, checking hotel after hotel.

  She saw yet another which she hadn't ticked off on her map. Hotel Touring. Taking a deep breath she walked inside, went up to reception.

  Paula!'

  She swung round. Philip had just come down into the lobby. He rushed towards her. She dropped her bag and the carrier containing the sweaters. He flung his arms round her.

  'Am I glad to see you.'

  'You can say the same for me. This is the tenth hotel.'

  She buried her head in his chest and burst into tears.

  33

  Philip carried Paula's bag up to her room after she had registered at reception. He was going to leave her by herself when she stopped him.

  'Don't go. It will only take me minutes to unpack, so sit down over there.'

  'You're exhausted, you need a rest.'

  'I need a stiff brandy in the bar . . .'

  He stared at her. Paula's voice had changed, had become strong, normal. He watched with disbelief as she unpacked swiftly. She paused when she had put away her clothes.